Jacques of All Trades
by Bulletproof Dork
Summary: Impersonating a flamboyant French privateer, wearing ladies’ undergarments, keeping one step ahead of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and getting rich all the while: Its all in a dishonest day’s work.
1. Ladies' Night

_Author's Forward: Any characters, people or places mentioned from Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl are property of Disney Enterprises Inc. and their respective owners, and are being used in this derivative work without written, oral or otherwise granted permission._

  
**Jacques of All Trades**

_Chapter One: Ladies' Night_

"Jack!" Clutching a ladies' brassier in his callused blacksmith's hands, Will Turner grimaced at his companion. "You've gone absolutely daft if you think I'll be caught up in another one of your-"

"Brilliant an' foolproof plans?" The substantially tipsy and equally as notorious pirate captain, Jack Sparrow paused to look back at Will, before digging through the old weathered trunk he had kept in his cabin for such an occasion.

Rolling his eyes, Will gazed down at the lacey undergarment in hand. "I was thinking something more along the lines of... harebrained and reckless."

With a grunt of satisfaction and amusement, Captain Sparrow rose to his feet and shoved a wrinkled blue dress and matching lace parasol in the blacksmith's hands. Will stood aghast. "You can't be _that_ desperate, can you?"

Jack smiled, somewhat wickedly. "Brilliance is born of desperation, m'good boy. Consider this... _invaluable reconnaissance_." He then spun to face the full-length mirror to his rear, holding up two swatches of fabric against his chest and alternating between them. "Green? Red? The green brings out me eyes, but... red's me signature colour." He muttered at his reflection. "By God, did I ever tell you what a handsome and dashin' bastard you've become?"

Will froze in place, nearly dropping the parasol in hand. "J-Jack, I... err, while I'm flattered-"

"Not you, boy!" Jack let out a hearty laugh as he tossed the green dress back in the trunk, kicking it closed with a booted foot. The pirate captain sloshed back the last contents of a small flask, grunting in disapproval as he came up with little more than a few drops.

"Why me?" asked Will, casting his head up to the powers that be, praying for an answer. But there was no clap of thunder nor bolt of lightning, only the incessant flapping of an idle pair of lips of which one too many yards of rum had passed.

"Well, Anamaria refuses to have anything to do with this. An' Mister Gibbs... I can't -nor will I _ever_ want to- picture that man in a dress." Sparrow stumbled slightly against the wooden trunk, but recovered with a flourishing bow. "As for the rest of the crew-"

"I just don't get it." Will grunted, exasperated with his colleague. He collapsed in a well-worn chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "There's got to be another way. A way that doesn't call for wigs, lipstick and these bloody..." He grabbed a fistful of underskirts on the table beside him. "... _lacey things_!"

"Petticoats." Jack shrugged his thread-bare shirt over his head, shaking his head like a rain-soaked hound to get his knotted hair out of his face. "They're called petticoats, not that I'd expect you to know that... _being a eunuch an' all_." He mumbled the last words as he began the task of stuffing the cups of his bow-riddled corset with handkerchiefs.

Will leapt to his feet. "I'll have you know, my wife and I have a very healthy relationsh-"

"Will," Jack stepped behind a changing curtain across the room, his face alight with amusement. He yanked the corset up around his torso, sucking in a deep breath. "If you're worried about your fair Lizzie, I promise not to make her jealous..." Jack exhaled. "...much."

"Dear God, Elizabeth! Heaven help me if she finds out!" His face was now firmly planted in the palms of his hands. "Or worse yet, her father!"

"The ol' Gov'nor?" Jack snorted in amusement, pulling a wrinkled red dress three sizes too large over his head. "I doubt he'll be much of a problem. I have the feelin' he knows far more about wearing ladies' undergarments than he's letting on. He's got an unusually well defined waist for a man of his-"

"You still haven't answered my question." Will stood next to the curtain, wringing his hands together, agitatedly. "_Why_ me?"

"Let's face it, love." Jack emerged, drowned in a whirlwind of scarlet fabric. He perched a limp wrist against his hip daintily and gave Will a once over. "You're what they call a _pretty boy_."

Hissing through clenched teeth, Will gave his friend a sharp look. "Am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not!" Will cried, his defiant stare unwavering. As the blacksmith shook his head in protest, a few errant wisps of honey brown hair fell to frame his face, accenting his stubborn, but handsomely chiseled jaw and flawless baby face. A soft sea breeze swept through the cabin, ruffling his hair and his open shirt.

The room fell onto utter silence as the two men were caught in a staring standoff.

Jack broke the silence with a cough, his tanned face trembling with suppressed amusement. He managed only a pitiful nod towards the mirror before he collapsed on the floor in rum-fueled fit of laughter.

With nothing more than a brief glance at the polished silver, Will stared back at his own reflection with great contempt. "Damnit."

After a concise introduction on maintaining a proper female falsetto and a personal consultation on the application of eyeliner, Will stood before the full-length mirror, the model of high fashion. Or so the pirate swore to him. The wrinkled blue dress only made Will's pale complexion look even more pallid, and accentuated the fact that he was as flat chested and broad shouldered as a man could get. Jack had used all the handkerchiefs the _Black Pearl_ had in order to attain what he called 'essential feminine assets', and now resembled something comparable to a beached whale, decked out in crimson silk. Meanwhile, without any padding of any sort, Will had begun to itch in places he never knew possible and on a number of occasions attempted to vanquish the irritation with a letter opener while Jack's back was turned. A mountain of platinum blonde curls lay in an unruly pile on Will's head, threatening to topple over at the slightest move. While Jack maintained blind faith in nearly two dozen hair pins he'd stuck in the wig, Will remained as stiff and still as a board as the pirate applied a heavy coat of rouge to the boy's cheeks and lips.

"Remind me once again, Jack, why I let you talk me into these things?" Will grumbled aloud as he smoothed out the skirts of his dusty blue gown, only to have the stubborn wrinkles reappear. Unfortunate for him, no one was impervious to Jack Sparrow's warmth and charm, if and when he employed it. Not even him.

"You'll thank me one day, boy." As Jack smeared on the last of the rouge, he gave Will a firm stern pat on the back, as if to reassure his masculinity. "Not everyone has such legendary stories about the one an' only Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Donning wigs and corsets, then parading around Cuba in the dead of night is a sound foundation for a legendary story?"

"With a little... embellishment, anythin' can be if Jack Sparrow is nigh." Jack piled his own hair under a dark wig, pinning back the renegade locks. "Y'know, add a few vicious buccaneer sorts here, maybe a mystical knick-knack there an' you've got yourself one smashin' bedtime story!" He waved his hands around, orchestrating his own fantastic ideas.

Will would have buried his face in his hands again, but feared smearing his makeup would do little to dissuade the crossdressing pirate's 'foolproof' plans.

"Give over, mate!" Jack pleaded. "It'll do you some good to get your land legs back, if only for an evenin'." He rose, tucking his dark knotted hair beneath a massive hairpiece of auburn curls that could have easily been mistaken for an Irish setter.

"But, what about...?" Will leaned forward and gave a quick tug on Jack's braided beard and then indicated to his own unladylike fur. Unless the locals would believe ladies with extensive facial hair was all the rage in France, which was entirely unlikely, Jack would have to abandon his outlandish idea. Finally, a loophole in his favor!

Jack's eyes lit up with youthful innovation, as he shoved a colorful folding fan in the whelp's hands, garnishing his own outfit with one as well. "I've got that all covered, me boy."

Will slumped against the door, his nails digging into the handle of his parasol. "I was afraid of that."

The sun had long set, and Will kept a watchful eye as they exited the captain's cabin. If the crew caught sight of this, Will couldn't imagine surviving the trip back to Port Royale. He'd die of embarrassment. Sneaking along the main deck, the lights of the port town of Baracoa flickered at the end of the pier only a couple hundred yards from the ship's harbor. As they came ashore, Jack took to a lady-like gait like a fish to water, while Will stumbled a few feet behind his companion, cursing words he saved for only the most ripe of occasions.

Trekking further into the small Cuban villa, he tried his best to ignore the muffled grunts of passing merchants, several of which gave the two 'women' disturbingly drawn-out looks.

"Where are we going?" Will hissed, fluttering his fan tentatively to hide his face.

"Keep up appearances, love." The pirate squawked back in a well-crafted falsetto as he led the march. "We're off to the King's Arm!"

The narrow winding streets of Baracoa offered little shadow and shade for a young man dressed in women's clothing to sulk in. The well-lit and overall friendliness of the town, while usually would have been welcoming, presented Will with an entirely different set of concerns. Meanwhile, Jack pranced along, occasionally giving Will's arm a rough, rather unladylike tug. They were nearly half a mile into the city, and Will realized he'd gone too far to turn back now. Silently and solemnly, he deemed an empty wheelbarrow laying on its side on the road the official _point of no return_.

"I don't know how they do it, Jack." Will grunted, adjusting his whalebone corset as he attempted to make small talk to ease the uncomfortable silence. "How a woman, let alone man, is supposed to function properly in this iron maiden is beyond my comprehension."

Jack gave Will a hollow pat on the back, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "You'll get used to it after the first few times, boy."

Will recoiled behind his fan and lace parasol, his brows knit together. His mind wandered and wondered all the while if Jack habitually dressed up like this for other various... _reconnaissance_ missions.

_Oh, God. _The thought was as unsettling as it was intriguing_. True, the man is remarkably well versed in the delicacies and fineries of women's undergarments, but-_

Jack yanked Will's arm, roughly, pulling him onto a poorly lit narrow side street. Struggling to keep his balance, Will nearly dropped his fan in a shallow puddle of rainwater.

"Nearly there." The pirate whispered, nodding furtively to a doorway, lit only by a swinging lantern. A weathered old sign, written in bold serifs that had begun to peel away with age was the only indication that they had arrived at their destination.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Jack began to bat his eyes, preparing to spread on the coquettish charm as thick as possible. Only one more obstacle lay between them and the front door. Jack could almost taste the rewarding tang of freedom, while Will had to fight off the bile rising in his throat.

"Evenin', _senoritas_." A broad-shouldered man peered down at them from nearly a full foot up, his meaty arms folded across his barreled chest. From his thick accent and even thicker red hair, Jack surmised the guard wasn't a local, but imported muscle. His stare, a combination of suspicion and interest was just enough to churn Will's stomach inside out.

"Evening." Jack's high-pitched feminine bravado would have been side-splittingly hilarious, had they been under other (drunken) circumstances. "Would you mind moving aside so two respectable old women can pop inside for a nip? It's frightfully dark out here."

The guard cast a curious look down at them, his scarred face obscured in the shadows. "Respectable old women, eh?" His suspicious beady eyes combed over them, probingly. While Jack continued to flutter his lashes at the man, Will could hardly keep his knees from knocking. An overwhelming feeling of impending doom filled the well of his chest. A man couldn't be hung, drawn and quartered for impersonating a lady... could he?

The guard cracked a near-toothless smile. "Why, neither of ye look a day o'er... sixteen."

Exhaling a breath he hadn't known he was holding in, Jack coughed behind his fan. "How... very kind of you, you dear, dear man."

Suitably pleased with himself, the man pushed the narrow door open with a thick hand, showing off more than just an impressive set of muscles but numerous explicit tattoos as well. Will's hands trembled with anticipation, as he held back the urge to reach for his trusty blade, which he conveniently left in his other corset.

A lazy smile curled the guard's sullied mouth as he gave Will a wink. "May ye drink yer fill an' merry-make not unto ruin, fer tonight, ladies drink free."

_Author's Note: As they say, idle hands are the devil's playground. And these hands had a keyboard at their disposal. (No internet/phone/cable for a month and a half can rearrange one's priorities rather quickly. In turn, I shall take this moment to curse the Deutsche Telekommunists and all their wretched subsidaries. Damn you, TKS/T-Mobile/T-Online! Damn you all to hell!) I've got well over half a dozen chapters, awaiting a final light polish before I post them, so fear not! Questions? Comments? Public verbal floggings? Review at will, maties! If inspiration fuels the mind, then surely praise fuels the pen!_


	2. Shut up and Look Pretty

_Chapter Two: Shut up and Look Pretty_

The venerable brig _Atropos_, proudly flying French colours, sailed into port earlier that evening, bringing nearly three tons of undeclared cargo and unseasonably bad weather along with it. A slight drizzle was certainly no impedance for the restless crew. Cabin fever had long set in, thanks to a trying expedition originating in Cote D'Ivoire earlier that same month. Provisions were low, morale was wearing thin and the last of the grog had been mistakenly jettisoned off the northern coast of Porto Rico. Being the first port en route of sufficient size, a pit stop in Baracoa was immensely necessary, lest the crew declare an untimely mutiny.

First to disembark the majestic ship, Captain Jacques Henri Briault sneered at his surroundings with disgust. The small Cuban town could have been considered quaint or even charming, had one never ventured to such wonders as Paris, Athens or even London.

"_Mon Dieu_, even London has more character than this insipid spit of land." Briault mumbled as he fixed a thick-bladed saber in his belt, along with an intricately ornamented pistol.

"Aye, Sir. Of course, Sir." Nigel Belmont, Briault's right hand lackey fiddled with a parasol, trying to keep the Frenchman's freshly pressed silk waistcoat dry as a small mob of sailors followed their captain down the docks. Many of the men merely stood bewildered as they caught their very first glimpse of their captain, a man who, otherwise, kept to himself.

In his youth, Briault was considered a fine looking and gifted young merchant, with aspirations and unusual work ethics the French parliament found both promising and charming. But if the creeping crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and the thin scar across his left cheek were any evidence, those years were long behind him. He'd seen more of this earth than he'd care to admit. Prominent cheekbones flushed out his tanned and sea-worn face, giving him an intense and commanding presence. While he was assured time and time again that he was still 'enigmatically charming', Briault saw his looks as the bane of his occupation. Years on the high seas made him look the one thing he detested most.

He looked common. He looked nothing like the valiant, fearless privateer he knew he was, and he found that most distressing. As the fourth son of a marquise, and of suspect legitimacy, there had been no title and little funds appropriated to him. What wealth and fortune he accumulated over the years was entirely his own doing.

Briault habitually dressed up his common face, his common build and his common brown hair with the most rare and extravagant fineries he could obtain. No colour was too bright, no pattern too overpowering, no wig too curly, no jewelry too ostentatious. Every man, woman and child he came across could not help but lend him their attention as he passed through Baracoa, his entourage of faithful hands falling mere steps behind.

Wrinkling his nose at the smell of a passing shipment of goats, Briault was determined not to let the squalid conditions of the town deter him from this evening's mission:

To get stone dead, shit-faced drunk.

It was a luxury he could only provide himself at rare time like these when he was far away from the prying eyes of his compatriots, the scandalmongering aristocracy. His men were amongst the most trusty, loyal and mindless lemmings the Caribbean had to offer. The less his crew knew about their employer's business practices, the better. Even his second in command, Belmont, an obedient little Protestant chap straight out of London hadn't a clue to his true commerce. The men in his company could not read nor speak a word of French, which had been a primary requirement to board the _Atropos_. There was nothing he hated worse than to hear his native language murdered by tripping lisping English tongues. Fortunate for him, most could barely read or write in their own native English tongue, let alone French, so that proved no hindrance when he picked up an eager crew in Tortuga naught but a few months ago.

And now, only four days away from making the final and principal trip of the year, Jacques Henri Briault could finally kick up his pointed imported Italian leather boots and relax.

He was grateful that he only made one run a year to the Caribbean, a place he'd otherwise never visit. The travel between France, Cote D'Ivoire and the West Indies had grown monotonous and painstakingly boring over the years. And the risk now presented by a rise of piracy threatened to crush his business. The thought of his ship, or any of his ships in the hands of another man was enough to churn his stomach.

Pushing through the doors of the King's Arm, Briault murmured a joke at the reigning English monarch's expense and scanned the near empty room for the most well lit table the seamy little tavern had to offer. Now was as good a time as any to exhibit his newest outfit: a whirlwind of chartreuse and teal silk from the Far East, tailored by the deftest hand in all of Paris. Surely even the dullest and uncultured of commoners had to recognize masterful craftsmanship when they saw it.

Adjusting his garish feathered hat atop his wigged and powered head, Jacques Henri Briault began what he hoped to be the most drunken and unmemorable night of his life, one tankard of tafia at a time.

Tucked away in the darkest corner the King's Arm had to offer, the radiant red-headed Jack Sparrow and his irritable but nevertheless lovely companion Will Turner had packed away nearly half a dozen tankards of piss-weak rum between the both of them. Long ago, a pact had passed between the two men, unspoken: Shut up and look pretty.

"I swear, mate, they water the shit down just fer nights like these. No self-respectin' man could get drunk offa this rubbish." Jack mumbled for the fifth time that evening, though he however waved a barmaid over to order another free round.

Will rubbed his wrist, sore from fluttering his fan for nearly a full hour straight. "You get what you pay for." He said, unremorsefully.

"Aye, true enough." Jack cracked a toothy grin and then nodded to a large rowdy band of sailors across the tavern. "Though, they seem to be havin' no difficulty gettin' tipsy offa it."

Sighing, Will gave a noncommittal shrug. "What can I say, Jack? Not all men have the fortitude and unending gumption you do when it comes to the pursuit of hard liquors."

"Ha!" The answer seemed to amuse Jack to no end, causing him to let out not only a vociferous laugh, but also a belch to match.

Will could have sworn the table actually shook beneath the breaking winds. Just as he was about to praise his comrade on his superb display of manners, Will felt nearly every last set of eyes the King's Arm had to spare on them.

For what felt like a near solid minute of ice-cold silence and stillness, Will prayed for the floor to come and swallow him up as he shriveled behind his fan.

In a flourish of nimble hand gestures, Jack proceeded to rise from his seat and bow skillfully at the waist, as if accepting a medal of valor from King George himself. "Excuse me." The pirate's squeaky bravado never once wavered as he sat back in his chair, smoothing his skirts.

Laughter erupted from the large party of men, many giving hoots and hollers of praise. A few even jokingly called for another show, but were quickly silenced by a barking command.

A smartly dressed gentleman grimaced across the tavern in the midst of the sailors, his arms folded over his heavily embroidered waistcoat. His haughty stare lingered on the two 'women' for a moment, before he wrinkled his nose with well-bred repugnance and turned aside, disappearing beneath a chartreuse feathered hat.

"Suppose not everyone enjoys such theatrics." Will shrugged, put off by the whole absurdity of the evening. Despite the impotence of his drink, Will felt his body and tongue begin to loosen. Casting an inquiring look over to his uncharacteristically silent mate, Jack looked distant. The pirate's dark brow was fixed in thought or confusion, the latter was by no means was a novel idea to the man. 

"I know that face. I know that man." Jack gripped the edge of the worn table, drumming a ringed finger against its top.

Will let out a careless chuckle as he fiddled with the fraying edge of his lacey sleeve. "There's a man under all that? I half expected him to squawk like a peacock."

"Flashy devil, he is. An' a damned familiar one at that." Jack nodded, his dark intelligent eyes keen. "Five, nay, six years ago in Georgia!"

Will coughed. "G-Georgia?" He'd heard bone-chilling stories of Georgia, and it's less than savory inhabitants. England deported most of its surplus criminals, wrongdoers and louts there. No self-respecting Englishman dare step foot out there after what the Spanish did to all those French settlers in Florida years back. "Gads, what were you doing there?"

Jack narrowed his eyes on the flamboyant bar patron, whom had resumed his drinking and sighed. "After a relatively unsuccessful an' fairly drunken evening in Boston that very same June, I served two months of a..." Jack tallied the numbers on his fingers. "...twenty-eight year prison sentence in one o' those penal colony penitentiaries."

"Penitentiary?" Will's eyes widened at the very thought. "Jack-"

"Larceny!" Jack cut him off, then gave him with an apologetic shrug. "P-petty larceny, I swear. I was framed, honest. Cross me heart, hope ta die."

"That man couldn't last a week in jail." Will scoffed, taking a sip from his mug as he eyed the gentleman once more.

"He didn't." Jack said. "That man -Jacques Briault- served naught but two days in the very same prison before they yanked him out."

"_They_? Wait, who's _they_? The French?"

"Undoubtedly. Seems the reigning Louis sees Briault as something of a... pet project. Anyhow, I took advantage of the hospitable distraction an' fled out a hole I'd dug through the prison's rottin' foundation with nothin' more than a spoon I fashioned meself from scratch, with hair from me back an'-."

"It's _always_ hair from your back, isn't it?" Will lifted his hand, signaling he had heard more than enough of this tale.

"An abundant resource, to be sure." Jack shot a brief glance behind him, motioning to his backside. "I've considered waxin' it a time or two, but I've grown rather fond'a it over the years."

The blacksmith nearly spat out the rum he only just sipped. "Damnit, Jack! I'm trying to drink!" He garbled around a mouthful of liquor.

"Aww, buck up, mate!" Jack slapped the boy's back, nearly sending a hearty spray of rum across the freshly wiped bar table. "I'll have you know I broke two o' me ribs pushing through that hole in the partition. And never mind that when I finally did get out, I was still in the middle of the bloody fuc-"

"What was he in for?" Will interrupted, wiping his mouth against the back of his hand. 

"Briault?" Jack waved his hand about indifferently. "Rumor 'round the cellblock was illicit cargo trafficking." He took a lengthy swallow from his tankard before continuing. "An' as we know, rumor is often more reliable than fact about those parts. Briault was, an' still is a rumrunner. Rather renowned one amongst such connoisseurs as meself. Only exports the finest an' smoothest rum the Caribbean has to offer. None'a this cheap tafia shit." Jack sloshed around the contents of his mug, hissing at it for good measure.

"Rum... runner?" Will once again turned his attention to Briault, sizing him up once again. He surely didn't look the sort to be engaging in illegal trafficking of any kind.

"Aye, duty-free an' direct to your front step. Bless their souls." Jack waved his hand about in drunken reverence, crossing his heart. "Rumor, once again, has it that he comes to the Caribbean but once a year for a trade with the colonies of epic proportions. None of this piddly stuff."

"Why would he trade with the colonies when-" 

"Boy, don't you know a damn thing about rum?" Jack lifted his mug, sloshing around its contents. "Molasses, mate! Molasses! It's the ambrosia that makes rum so sweet, so fragrant an' so bleedin' strong. The Colonies are rightly full of the stuff." Jack's voice trailed off, as he looked down at the table. His dark amber eyes glazed over, as they grew cloudy with thought.

"What?"

"What 'what'?" Jack snapped his head up.

"That look." The lad crossed his eyes fleetingly, trying his best to imitate 'the look'. "You only get _that look_ when you're about to say something either incredibly profound or incredibly stupid."

"Which one do you think it is this time?"

"Honestly?"

"Need I remind you I'm the one with the boat?" Jack lifted a finger to further his point.

"Profound."

"Smart boy," said Jack, as he tilted back in his chair with a smug smile. "If Briault is in Cuba, he's in the midst of his annual run and is, no doubt, going to come into a lot of rum. The marvelously expensive sort. I'm talkin' thousands of pounds worth, mate."

The blacksmith patted the side of his blonde wig gently, seemingly more interested in keeping it from toppling over than the conversation at hand. "Your point being?"

Jack gave a dramatic sigh before continuing. "Me point being, Jacques Henri Briault is a rich man who is, in a few days, going to get even richer."

Will lifted a powdered brow. "How is this a point?"

"Rob from the rich, give to the poor, mate. Robin Hood and all that." Jack twirled his hand about.

Will let out a merciful laugh. "You're far from poor. The gold in your mouth alone could purchase and outfit a small country!"

"Not me. You." Jack's eyes sparkled in the dim smoky light. "How do you think you'd feel havin' to borrow money from the coin purse of your father-in-law for the rest of your life?"

"I..." Will was at a loss of words.

"It's only a matter of time before his well of hospitality dries up. Politicians aren't renowned for their... altruism."

_Neither are pirates_, Will thought but kept to himself. He knew better than to bring up the old 'piracy versus respectable business' argument again. It did little more than make both sides belligerent, particularly when the slightest drop of alcohol was involved.

"An' the baby!" Jack lifted his hands, palm up. "Lizzie's got but a month left before she'll be birthing your first child. You can't tell me that doesn't scare you right shitless."

"Absolutely shitless." Will noted, casting his gaze downward. The sheer weight of Elizabeth being with child had thrilled him as much as it had terrified him. As his wife's smooth and flat stomach had grown, so had his own fears. With a blacksmith's pay, he was just barely able to provide for himself and his wife. And though he was sure his father-in-law would never withdraw his generosity, particularly with a child on the way, Will greatly wished he didn't need to rely upon it. A sore subject, if ever there was one.

"So, c'mon. I owe you a nifty weddin' present anyhow. You've got nothin' ta lose." Jack waggled his brow.

"But... Jack, I've got everything to lose. I'm not a pirate. I'm a bleeding blacksmith." Despite his protests, Jack still looked unconvinced. "Yes, I may have done a bit of... _commandeering_ in the past, but never any outright stealing."

"There's a subtle difference, inn't there?" Jack asked, squinting at him. "See, now the difference between you an' me is that I fought with the devil an' angel inside of me long ago. When all was said an' done, I won." Jack reached into the small bowl beside them, plucking out a nut. Holding it between his teeth, he continued to speak. "You, you're still scrappin' with 'em."

"Jack, I may not be rich, but I don't need to be." Will sighed, ignoring Jack's digressive rambling. "I put in an honest day's work, seven days a week, every last day of the year. That's a reward in and of itself."

_Ah, so that's it? His dignity's getting in the way_, Jack thought and breathed a relaxed sigh. "How long can a man live on pride an' pride alone? I've said it once, an' I'll say it again: the pirate is in yer blood, boy." Jack grinned as Will mouthed the last few words, glad to see he was paying attention. The boy always seemed raise the devil and the schoolmarm in him. "There's no denyin' you're Bootstrap Bill's son. Try as you may, you look too damn much like him to ever refute that." Jack crunched another roasted nut in his mouth. "An' look! You're sittin' in a tavern with the, an' I mean, the Captain Jack Sparrow-"

"Who is dressed like a woman." Will added.

Jack defended, "Who is dressed like a woman to help get you back on your feet, financially." 

"Oh, and I suppose the free drinks were just a...?"

The pirate tilted his head down, timidly. He mumbled softly into his fan, "Well, that was just a fortunate circumstance, really."

Will cast a sharp glare across the table. The pirate was dancing expertly around the subject at hand, a diplomatic habit he employed often enough. How dare Jack, a pirate of all people, take it upon himself to give _him_ charity? Though in truth, Will never refused his father-in-law's financial help, he'd be damned if he'd steal just to gain a loftier station in life. "Robin Hood, my eye! This is your brilliant and foolproof plan? To go after some peacock of a Frenchman's fortune?"

"Plan really isn't the word. Hope is more like it." Jack explained.

"Then you hoped Briault and his ship filled to the brim with your precious rum would be here?" Will asked.

Jack brushed a few crumbs off the table, absently. "Bingo, mate. It's just me dumb luck that he an' I ended up crossing paths once again."

"Okay," Will grunted, as he adjusted his corset. "All preconditions aside, I'm curious. _Not that I'd ever be a part of such a foolhardy plan_, but how would you ever expect to lift thousands of pounds worth of rum without catching a bullet through your middle?" Will leaned back, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. This ought to be good.

The pirate captain cleared his throat, straightening against the back of his chair. "Well, that's what has me a bit perplexed. You can't just up an' steal that vast amount without bein' detected or at the very least, properly assaulted. But, you see those men over there?" Jack pointed to a particularly rowdy group, who had taken to playing a game of darts. They let out a drunken cheer as they nearly nicked the bar owner with a dart as the poor red-faced man puffed past, a dozen mugs in hand.

Will tilted his chin up in a nod, briefly. "Aye."

"Once upon a time ago when I was just a wee boy, not much older than yourself," Jack cracked a smile as Will rolled his eyes, no doubt protesting to the use of the word 'wee'. "I served before the mast with a number of 'em. Pink Eye Pete, Gorgeous Bjorn Bjornson an' Blowfish Funkmeyer."

Mouthing the last name silently, Will's face puckered in bafflement.

"Don't ask, mate. Jus' don't ask." Jack shook his head, and continued. "They're some of the greediest bastards I've ever served beside, good pirates through and through. Ten to one odds say they're just in it fer the money, no matter who commands the ship."

"Good men are hard to find nowadays." Will mused.

"Good captains are even harder. What do you want ta bet that they've not got the slightest clue they're working fer a slave driver?"

Pausing with his tankard against his lips, Will cast a wary glance Jack's way. "Slave driver? I-I thought you said he was a rumrunner."

"One in the same, mate. One occupation feeds the other, and so on, and so forth." Jack shrugged. "It's a rather vicious time-tested cycle, really. Both are valuable commodities not only in the Caribbean, but Europe as well. A right shame no one ever saw fit to put an end to such an unjust system."

"Jack." Will's voice rose in threat. Damn him for knowing which sympathies to play upon and which buttons to push. The pirate's perceptiveness, a sly tactic to be sure, would likely cause the untimely demise of Will's morale conscience. Damn him.

"The children, mate! Think of the innocent children!" Jack clasped his hands together melodramatically, clutching them against his chest in a pitiful display. "Think about it. You could be somethin' of a modern day Robin Hood." Jack tilted forward in his chair, leaning over the table with a mischievous smirk. "And I could be your faithful companion, Little Jack." The pirate paused, pressing a finger to his lips. "Nay, too diminutive. Big Jack!"

Will buried his head in his hands. "Jack, really. I'm not going to resurrect some hackneyed old wives tale merely because of a grave injustice far bigger than the both of us-"

"Friar Jack?" He blurted aloud, his powdered and painted face twitching with amusement. "That's it! Friar Jack."

Will cracked a smile, despite the urge to continue his protests. "You... a friar? Don't they take vows of celibacy and sobriety?"

Jack reared back with disgust. "Gads, perish that! I suppose the church will have to do without me, so long as women and rum still plague God's green earth."

"Oh, how the heavens weep!" Will laughed into his near empty tankard, draining the last of the tepid liquid.

Jack squinted determinedly at the tabletop. "Then, who's that other fellow? You know, the one with the... the Constable- no, Sheriff! The Sheriff of Jackingham!"

"Oh, come on!" Will struggled to keep a straight face. To laugh now would surely break down every last defense the boy had staunchly in place. "Now you're just being absurd."

"One of me most charming traits, I'm sure of it." Jack's smile faded, as he grew rigid, casting sidelong glances in Briault's direction. "I still plan to take that bastard down. With, or without your help."

His last words reeked with severity. Though he was certainly the chatty sort, Jack was never one to toss around threats idly, and Will was damned aware of that. Jack would do it whether or not he agreed to it. If he did agree, at least he could try to keep the pirate from almost certain doom. "Fine. Just bloody fine." Will gave in, none too pleased with himself or his companion. "What's your plan?"

"Atta boy!" Jack perked up, slapping the wooden table merrily. "I had thought we'd just kidnap the bugger before he makes his drop in Kingston Bay, tuck the poor bastard him away for a bit and be on with it."

"_Be on with it_?" Will mocked his companion's lightheartedness when it came to criminal activities. "Surely, you're mad if you think you could get away with that under the very nose of the Royal Navy not but a bay away. Stealing a shipload worth of cargo, rum or otherwise, is not a matter of hours, but days, Jack. Maybe weeks." Will's voice lowered to a whisper, as he tossed cautious looks at the group of men "And don't forget this 'they' your Frenchman keeps in close company. No doubt if 'they' freed him from a heavily fortified colonial penitentiary, then they'll have no misgivings against disposing of two meddling Englishmen."

A crafty smile curled Jack's lips, as if he were privy to all the secrets of the ancient world. "Aha, but what if they don't know he's gone missing?"

"Oh, and how do you plan to do that, Captain, my Captain?" Will waved at the foggy smoke pooling around them from a nearby newly lit pipe with his fan.

Jack straightened his back, jutting his proud, well-padded chest forward. "That Frenchman bears a striking resemblance to a certain dashing fellow I believe both you and I know quiet well."

He wouldn't dare, thought Will.

"Heavens, Jack!" Will cried. For fear of being heard, he dropped his voice down. "I dressed up like a bloody harlot just so you could come down and snag a free nightcap! That's a far cry from abducting and impersonating a Frenchmen! And, look at him," Will pointed from behind his still waving fan across the room, where Briault let out a rumbling laugh thanks to the young barmaid planted on his lap. "He's got to be at least a solid fifteen, no, twenty years my senior!"

"Not you, boy!" Jack smacked Will on the forearm with his fan, and then lowered his voice as he leaned across the table for a conspiratorial whisper. "Me."

_Author's Note: Stay tuned for hilarity and chaos to ensue! I'll be first to admit I got a tad carried away with this chapter, (Sherriff of Jackingham and Blowfish Funkmeyer, case in point) but I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy every last minute of it. Leave me a review if you've got time. I'd really appreciate it. Thanks!_

_And on further note, 'tafia' is a cheap, lower quality rum made and consumed domestically. Ah... sweet, sweet history._


	3. National Insecurity

_Chapter Three: National Insecurity_

"Belmont!"

The harsh cry startled the Atropos' first mate from even two solid feet of polished oak away. Stumbling to his feet, Nigel Belmont was barely awake and in no mood to tend to the Captain's demands. Belmont had managed to consume what he imagined was several gallons of Cuban ale in the evening prior. With naught but three hours of sleep, Belmont wasn't entirely sure he wasn't still drunk.

"Aye, Sir!" The young dark-haired Londoner belted back, jumping out of his hammock and into a pair of ill-fitting trousers. He barely had time to shove his rumpled shirt into the waistband of his pants before the Captain shouted a garbled string of exasperated French. With not so much as a glimpse in the passing mirror, Belmont slipped into the cabin adjacent to his. "Captain?"

Jacques Henri Briault was floundering in a sea of blue Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking himself out of goose down bed as he sputtered. "You lout, you were supposed to wake me at dawn! It's as bright as day out there!"

Belmont bit back some choice words, and gathered his wits about him before speaking. "C-Captain, you didn't get in until well after the sun rose." He dug a gilded pocket watch from his trousers, flipping it open. "Half past seven, if memory-"

"Never mind that!" Briault straightened his blindingly bright nightgown, adjusting a matching nightcap atop his slowly thinning head of hair. Heavens, even in bed the man dressed like a bloody circus clown. At least he wasn't in curling papers. Belmont never could keep a straight face around a Frenchman in curlers. "You damn well know how important appointments are! Unlike you dilly-dallying Britons, we must run a tight ship. I make no accommodations for the slightest degree of error."

Apparently the French used the royal _we_ as well. How amusing.

"Aye, Sir." Belmont blurt out before his tongue could spit out a pithy remark. "Tight ship, Sir. Aye, Sir."

"Very well, then." Briault coughed, giving his first mate one last sharp look before turning towards the window. "Alert the sailing master that we'll be setting a course, south-southwest for Port Royale no less than two hours from now. If every man is not aboard and at his station, he will be left. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye, aye, Sir." Belmont responded. He silently pondered how many times he'd said 'aye' in the past minute. Far too many, by half.

"Good." Briault seemed quite pleased at the quick response, and began to tug on the whiskers of his dark chin beard. "I want to see the eastern coast of Jamaica by tea time, or whatever it is you Englishmen call four o'clock." He waved his hand dismissingly.

"Aye, Sir." Belmont nodded. Six 'ayes' in under a minute. Surely a new record.

Briault crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, be gone with you! I do not pay you to stand around gawking like a slack-jawed half-wit."

"Aye, Sir!"

_Damnit. Seven._

"G'morning, Jack. I pray the day finds you well?" Will shoved a hand through his disheveled hair as he handed Jack Sparrow a steaming mug of coffee. Though it was long past the breakfast hour, Will thought he'd need it.

Squinting sharply at the boy, Jack bit back some choice words as he swallowed the bitter drink. "I can say, without hesitation, it's been the worst day since yesterday."

Grunting in agreement, Will lifted his own mug. "Here, here." He would have openly suggested they swear off drinking, but there would be little sense in wasting the breath. Jack Sparrow once reportedly drank the half of the British Parliament under the table, while still in diapers. While Will highly doubted the authenticity of the story (unless Jack was full grown at the time, which wasn't as surprising as it was disturbing), he didn't doubt its implications.

Adjusting his hat atop his head, Jack shaded his eyes as he lifted his brass telescope, narrowing his sights across the dock. Settling on the stern of the only other ship in port, a handsome looking brigandine, Jack hummed as he found its captain taking his breakfast in the privacy of his cabin.

After withstanding a full minute of hums and grunt of discovery from Jack, Will finally butt in. "What's so intriguing?"

"Briault." Jack collapsed the telescope in hand and tucked it back in his jacket. "He's nearly done with his morning meal. Seems he's not the only man this morning suffering from a big head."

Will squinted at the brigandine across the harbor. "How can you tell? You can see that from this distance?"

Jack chuckled inwardly as he leaned against the rail. "He's on his fifth cup of coffee this morning. Black, no cream, no sugar. An unmistakable indication." He took another sip from his own cup. "He's rather impossible to miss. The man wears a bloody lime green nightgown. That's fair enough to give a man a headache." Jack blinked repeatedly, pressing a finger to his temple.

"Gads." Will murmured, the corners of his lips twitching upward as he grabbed the telescope from Jack's coat. Narrowing his sights on the forecastle windows of the Atropos, Will's astonished smile grew. "And a nightcap to match!"

"Don't remind me." Jack snatched the telescope from the boy's hand, and shoved it back in his jacket. "Come now, let's go enlist a bit of muscle for our afternoon excursion. Mister Gibbs ought to do nicely."

"Surely Gibbs has more sense than to get caught up in this." Will shook his head, spinning on his heal as he followed Jack.

"Don't be so sure, mate. He can be rightly patriotic sometimes, that is, when he's not thievin' from His Majesty's himself." Jack shrugged on his navy waistcoat, and brushed off the lapel as the two men stepped into the welcoming shade of the captain's cabin. Once neatly away from prying ears and eyes, Jack let forth a deafening shout. "Oi, Gibbsy!"

Will winced at the shrill command and recoiled into a cushioned chair, clutching his pounding head. Damn. In his peaceful and drunken slumber last night, he'd nearly forgotten how noisy life aboard a ship -particularly Jack's ship- could be.

Joshamee Gibbs, the jovially grubby first mate huffed around the corner, popping his head through the door. "Aye, Jack?" He was one of the few crewmembers aboard allowed to call the captain by his Christian name, and never failed to abuse it.

"Mister Gibbs," started Jack as he coiled a length of rope around his bended arm. "How would you like to help me an' the whelp here wrestle an' hogtie a Frenchie down by the docks?"

Will nearly gasped aloud at the bluntness of his words. Jack made it all sound so... blasé.

Gibbs' brow fixed momentarily in concern as he spied the rope, pistol and pile of maps laid across the dining table that Jack had produced. With a suspicious grunt, he looked towards Jack. "This transgression wouldn't happen ta be of the... illegal sort, now would it?"

"Of course, man. Aren't they all?" Jack was scarcely able to hide a grin. "Have any qualms against it?" 

After a drawn out moment of consideration, Gibbs' lips pulled back in a beaming smile, like a child on Christmas morning. "Not a one, Jack."

The captain briefed his first mate on the situation at hand, and grinned as the man's eyes widened considerably at the mention of such vast quantities of rum. The deal was veritably sealed. The two pirates were quick to form a game plan as they huddled over the table, laughing and snickering like schoolboys planning a prank on the headmaster.

Patriotic, indeed. Will gulped audibly as he gathered his belongings, casting a wary glance his companions. "God save the King... and my hide."

_Author's Note: The tiniest chapter known to man was brought to you by Bulletproof Dork. 100% fat free, now with extra calcium. Pirate tested, quartermaster approved! I'll be updating rather promptly, so be sure to pop back in later. Leave me a review if you've got the time. Sometimes they're the best kind of inspiration a girl could ever hope for._  



	4. Mission Improbable

_Chapter Four: Mission Improbable_

Slipping aboard the _Atropos_ unnoticed was going to be a tricky task, but Jack maintained complete confidence. The brig was heavily guarded, though he doubted the men knew exactly what it was they were protecting. Had they known there was at least twelve hundred gallons of rum aboard, no doubt a mutiny would have been declared long ago. A little bribery could go a long way but Jack's coin purse was a bit light after last night's escapade. 

After thoroughly convincing Will of his plan, the two of them had stumbled in and out of nearly every last bar Baracoa had to offer. As dawn approached, the two well-inebriated men had finally made their way safely back to the _Black Pearl_, but unfortunately lost their fancy wigs somewhere between the rounds of vinegary wine and shots of amber liquor. Will, not known for being able to hold said liquor, didn't. As Jack had tried to identify and classify what Will had tossed up all over the quarterdeck, Anamaria, the helmswoman, came topside at the most inopportune moment. Jack had caught the movement out of the corner of his eye a fraction of a second too late. She had stood aghast at the sight of the two of them, clad in women's dresses, hunched over a puddle of vomit. But mere moments after, she fled into the night like a bat out of hell.

Oh God, how he relished having to explain it to her. His stomach churned at the thought.

The small rowboat Jack sat in, barely large enough for three grown men and a sack full of equipment rocked as Will leaned over to him. "It's nearly noon. You truly plan to get away with this in broad daylight?"

"It's to be least expected." Jack tilted his head up, shielding his sight from the glaring sun with a hand. Gibbs had successfully and undetectably rowed them right up next to the docked _Atropos_. "The element of surprise, m'boy, is not one to be taken lightly."

Disinclined to give voice to his concerns, Will just gave the man a nod. Far too late to back out now.

Gibbs tucked the oars back in the rowboat, nearly smacking Will clear across the face. As it was, Will simply received a face full of salt water. Gibbs, oblivious as ever, gave his week's growth of a beard a good scratching before turning before turning to Jack. "I've gotten ye this far, Jack. What's next in yer grand master plan?"

"We wait." He answered, as if it were horribly apparent.

Will paused from rubbing his face against the sleeve of his jacket to peer up. "Wait?"

"Aye, boy." Jack shot him a terse look. "We wait."

The blacksmith and first mate looked absolutely dumbfounded as silent looks passed between them. Apparently, he was going to have to elaborate. "We wait for that little bell up there," said Jack as he pointed to the poop deck, where indeed a bell was mounted, "to start goin' jingly-jingly, signallin' the change of the guard. Noon's nigh, so it's due to commence any second n-"

The bell began it's crisp _jingly-jinglying_. Jack gave the two men an tart grin. "The opportunity arises, men! Now or never! What say you?"

"Now!" Gibbs gave a jaunty cheer, while Will mumbled something that could have been construed as a less enthusiastic "Now."

On Jack's signal, Will, having by far the best aim of the group, pitched a length of rope, weighted by a metal hook, onto the terrace at the stern of the ship. He exhaled a sigh of relief as the hook caught on the wooden rail, and held firmly as he tugged on it.

Gibbs, the heaviest man in the group, was first to climb up, his meaty hands gripping the rope with amazing ease. Will, having no desire to stare at Gibbs' arse for any lengthy period of time, waited until the man was standing aboard the terrace before he too climbed the rope. The bag on his back, stuffed to the brim, shifted and swayed with every move but to Will's delight, did not crash into the calm murky waters below.

Jack, the lightest of the group (by nearly a stone, Will surmised, as his own plentiful diet in the past month had him soft around the middle), hoisted himself effortlessly up the rope, no doubt used to such exercise. In the past month, Will had been witness to Jack's unmatched climbing abilities as he scaled many a wall for several late-night rendezvouses with numerous beautiful Spanish girls. Unfortunately, Jack's skill in jumping -particularly when clad only in his knickers whilst escaping said Spanish girls' husbands- left much to be desired.

So far, their activity had gone unnoticed, which did little to stop Will's heart from it's incessant pounding. Jack cupped his hands together and peered through a small windowpane. Will and Gibbs followed his lead.

The Captain's cabin was a majestic room, lavishly decorated and fit for a Queen. As Will recalled the flamboyantly dressed man last night, perhaps he wasn't that far off. Briault, though while he had an effeminate wardrobe, had a distinctly masculine taste when it came to furniture. Dark woods, boldly printed fabrics even a lush inviting carpet from Persia made the room marvelously welcoming.

Amidst a small seating area, Captain Jacques Henri Briault lounged on a stuffed fainting couch, leafing derisively through a volume of Francis Bacon's works. Occasionally he could give a snort or cackle, before losing his interest and flipping to another page.

Smacking his lips anxiously, Jack shot a signal to his first mate and stepped back against the wooden terrace. Will too followed his lead.

With a boyish grin on his face, Gibbs lifted his leg and in one brutal kick, knocked his boot right through a solid inch of oak paneling.

"_Merde_!" The French privateer sputtered, falling off the fainting couch. He promptly ducked, clutching his white wig, as if expecting gunfire and cannon fire to ensue.

Splintering the door and ripping it from its hinges with one more kick, Gibbs stepped back and gave his companions a courteous bow. "After ye."

Jack tiptoed over the disintegrated door and made a beeline for Briault, as the man tried to tuck himself under the couch. Jerking the Frenchman to his feet in a powerful yank, Jack nearly ripped the sleeve of his coat.

"_Imbecile_!" Briault hissed, clutching the shoulder of his coat. He inspected the seam, and looked up only after accessing no damage to his fine attire. "Who _are_ you?" He spoke with an accusatory tone, which ill suited his lisping melodic accent.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Jack shoved the man back down on the couch. "Captain Jack Sparrow, an' these are my business associates, Mister Gibbs and Mister Turner."

Gibbs flashed a toothy grin, and Will gave a meek uncertain wave.

"Sparrow?" Briault recoiled slightly onto the couch, rubbing his chin in thought. "_Oui_, I've heard of you. A repugnant knave and pirate, if the stories are indeed accurate."

"Why, I'm privileged!" Jack's hand fluttered to his chest, like a blushing old maid receiving a compliment. No doubt he did take such a remark as such. "To think that me stories have carried so far as to fall upon French gentry's ears!"

"A remarkable feat, in the least." Briault hissed, wrinkling his nose. "Now, if you would be so kind as to get the hell off my boat, lest I alert the Cuban authorities."

"No need to bring the Spanish into this, mate." Jack signaled to Gibbs with a brief wave, who began to rummage around in the bag Will brought aboard. "This is merely an Englishman settling a score with a Frenchman."

Briault twitched, noticeably more nervous. He, however, managed to still give Jack a scrutinizing scowl. "W-why, I've never seen you before in my life. And if I did, I assure you, you're appearance is utterly... forgettable."

Jack plopped down beside Briault, swinging his arm over the Frenchman's shoulder, as if he were an old school chum. Briault squirmed. "Ah, lucky for me you're not nearly as forgettable. Perhaps you may have never _seen_ me before, but I've _seen_ you. Ever been to the colonies... say, Georgia? I heard it's exquisite this time o' year."

The colour drained from Briault's face, as if it had been punched out of him.

Gibbs, finally having retrieved a length of rope from that bottomless pit of a bag, moved to tie the Frenchman's hands behind him. The man gave one hell of a fight, kicking and struggling as he fell to the floor, but the pirate quickly overcame him with brute force.

"Be gone with you!" Briault abandoned his swarthy coolness, and wailed like a babe as his hands were tied behind his back. "I'll have your head on a guillotine by sundown if you do not unbind my hands, at once!"

Will wondered if there were any guillotines in the Caribbean. Perhaps some of the French colonies had them packed away for a rainy day. He had no doubt that several heads, his own to be sure, would roll if they ever were to be caught. He feared the day drew nigh.

"Temper, temper, _Monsieur_ Briault." Jack scolded, intending to ruffle the feathers of this peacock of the man. He rose, grabbed the Frenchman by his lapel of his coat and hauled him into the nearest chair. "Surely you'd be ruined as an infallible sea captain if your men came in an' found you clad in petticoats an' lace."

"Petticoats?" Briault's face puckered, the remark catching him off guard.

Petticoats? Will mouthed silently. Not again.

"Only the finest, I assure ye, Captain." Gibbs chuckled as he pulled a handful of skirts from the bag. The privateer's and the blacksmith's eyes bulged at the sight.

"These look mighty familiar, Jack." Gibbs thumbed the fabric, tossing a knowing smile up to the pirate. "Sophie?"

A wistful smile brushed past Jack's lips, as he kneeled and gave the skirts a gingerly pat. "Claudette, if memory serves. I'm sure she'd be delighted to learn her forgotten unmentionables are aiding and abetting in an act of national security."

Will clapped a curved hand to his mouth, and whispered to Jack. "Is this _really_ necessary?"

"Of course!" Jack reassured him with a pat on the shoulder. "Carryin' a sharply-dressed Frenchmen down the docks is suspect, in an' of itself, but carryin' a fussy harlot from the Captain's quarters dressed _only_ in her petticoats an' stockin' is, " his grin deepened, exposing more gilded teeth, "hardly a suspicious occurrence."

Will added under his breath. "Nor an infrequent one, particularly around you." 

Briault let loose a howl as Gibbs began to tug and yank the skirts up about his waist, cursing and screaming all the while. "If you think I'll be the prey in your twisted foxhunt, you're sorely mistaken!"

Jack gave a sly, composed chuckle as he pushed himself to his feet. "It's no manner of sport in the least, Captain. We're merely adhering to our civic duty, I assure you."

Will gave him a furtive, skeptical glance. Since when did Jack Sparrow adhere any duties other than the husbandly ones he supplied other men's wives?

Briault's laugh held more anxiety than mirth as he shook his head. "You are no agents, save perhaps for _le diable_ himself. No crown dare lay claim nor offer harbor to such devilish denizens." A vicious temper threatened to boil over his composed demeanor, and he continued to shake his head.

"Ah, Let he who is without sin cast the first..." Jack pursed his lips, trying to dislodge the word on the tip of his tongue. The Bible had been a rather infrequent read as of late.

Gibbs coughed. "Stone."

"Ah yes, Stone!" Jack swirled his hand about, as sat it upon Briault's shoulder. The man retreated as far into the unforgiving wooden chair as possible. "You've been up to rather suspect activities yourself, as far as the English crown is concerned."

Briault shook with a mixture of anger and panic, a volatile combination. "I resent the insinuation that you would dare compare me to your wretched kind!"

"Would you rather me contrast than compare?" Pulling a chair besides the quaking Frenchman, he straddled the chair as if it were a steed. "There is but one thing that separates you an' me, Jacques. A tiny little piece of paper with a tiny little wax seal, marred with your tiny little fleur-de-lis. Hide behind it, if it eases your conscience."

He gave Jack another fine sneer. "Save me your rubbish! You, Captain Sparrow," he hissed the name as if it were a damning curse, "will never amount to anything more than another wayward son of Brittany, unreceptive to the far-reaching lashings of its fattened cow of a mother!" Briault's voice rose to a high-pitched whine as he thrashed in his chair.

Gibbs gave a low growl, none too pleased with anyone insulting his master, commander and brother-in-arms, let alone the country of their birth. He took a menacing step closer to the French gentleman, a meaty fist balled at his side.

"Heal, Gibbs." Jack stayed his first mate with the flick of his wrist. He untied his red salt-bleached bandana and presented it to Gibbs unceremoniously. "Gag the poor bastard before he damns himself further."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Gibbs replied, more than content to abide by the order.

Will instinctually jumped between Mister Gibbs and the wailing francophone, though his better judgment told him better. No doubt Briault was cursing not only Jack and his immediate family, but also every last relative back to his great, great grandmother. "You can't mean to stick that... horrid rag in his mouth!" Will exclaimed.

"That's exactly what I intend ta do, boy. Move aside." Gibbs gave him a dismissing shove as he grabbed a hold of the Frenchman's white wig, and securely tied the red scarf around the man's gaping mouth.

Briault gave a kick as he grumbled around the scarf, his tanned face growing redder by the passing moment. Unsightly veins had begun to pulse on his forehead as sweat beaded at his temple.

"Hell's knees, Jack!" Gibbs cracked a toothy smile, slapping Briault on the back. "I thought all these Frenchies sported skin fairer than e'en an Englishmen. Why, he's as bronze an' shiny as halfpenny!"

Humouring his first mate with a smile, Jack quickly pivoted to face the pensive blacksmith, who was standing idly by. "Will." He called to him.

Peering up at the sound of his name, Will was noticeably ill at ease, his doe-eyes fixed in a perpetual state of remorse.

"What is done is done, boy, an' not a bit of pouting will undo it." Jack said, tossing the burlap sack in the boy's empty hands. "Why not put those skilled blacksmith's hands to some use, aye?" It was less a question than a command, sugar-coated as it might be.

Staring down at the bag as if it were a wriggling serpent, Will cried, "What do I do with this?" His nerves were finally catching up to him, and with a vengeance.

In no lovely mood himself, Jack snatched the bag back from the lad, and in one fell swoop, shoved the sack over Briault's head. The bag swallowed him right down to the waist, where an array of rumpled skirts stuck out. "Don't you remember the plan we so expertly concocted last night?"

There was a plan?

"Vaguely." Will admitted after a labored sigh. His usually sharp memory was a tad hazy concerning the evening's charade. All the better, he supposed.

"Relax, mate." Jack added with a charming reassuring grin as he patted the burlap sack. The bag gave a fierce wiggle and grumble in reply. "I've got the situation completely and utterly under my-"

A soft knock at the cabin door forced a most unmanly scream from Jack, as fell, landing on his backside. He nearly took the bagged Frenchman with him.

Mister Gibbs was first to act, his filet-blade dagger already poised and ready to strike. Will had leapt back, his hand holding a firm but shaky grip on his sword, which remained still sheathed.

A nod passed between Jack and Gibbs, and in a whirlwind of motion, Gibbs swung the cabin door wide open, yanking a paltry-looking man with against the doorframe. He fixed his harsh and daunting glare on the poor unfortunate bastard.

The _Atropos_' first mate, Belmont grew rigid, paralyzed with fear from the neck down. His head began shooting back and forth between the wriggling burlap sack, the shiny dagger and livid chap connected, not but half an inch from the tip of his nose.

Near breathless, Belmont crossed his chest as best he could. "M-Mary Mother of God!"

_Author's Note: Many thanks for the reviews, maties. They can brighten an otherwise craptacular day! And, by all means, leave some more!_

_In responce to ping*pong5's question in her last review: I've done a good bit of research over the past few years regarding the 18th century, naval warfare, British/French relations and monarchs thanks to a lifelong obsession with history, but I didn't do any research for this particular piece (short a few choice swears in French), which is set around the mid 1730s, during the decline of the age of piracy in the Caribbean._  



	5. Bffmmnt!

_Chapter Fix: Bffmmnt!_

"_Belmont_!" Briault cried, but thanks to the scarf and subsequent burlap bag, it came out decidedly more like "_Bffmmnt_!" 

Tossing the most nonchalant look he could muster over his shoulder, Jack cast his eyes on the intruder frozen in the doorway to the cabin. Belmont, still clutching his leather-bound accounts journal and a pair of spectacles shot his nervous eyes between the bag and the pirate. The bag. The pirate. The bag. The pirate.

Will felt his fingers twitch, eager for action but still hesitant to act. Surely the man was little more than an obedient lackey. Will, though quite nervous, was not nearly so jumpy as to slay a plain-clothed civilian. Gibbs on the other hand...

"In or out, man!" Jack pushed off from his knees, and rose to his feet. "I know, for a fact, that you were not born in a barn."

Silence engulfed the party of men. After a drawn-out moment of hestitation, Belmont closed the door behind him in a careful, cool manner. Making sure all the bolts were securely locked, he spun to face the band of pirates. "I..." He swallowed a deep breath as he smoothed out his vest. "I didn't expect to see you until we reached harbor in Kingston."

A perplexed frown washed across Will's face as he stepped forward. "What do you know of Kingston?" He demanded, his sword nearly drawn.

"_Bffmmnt_!" Briault mumbled again, whipping his head from side to side.

Jack cupped a hand to his ear, and leaned closer to the Frenchman in a bag. "Belmont, you say?" He waited for another muffled grunt before continuing. "Surely you're mistaken, _mon Capitaine_. That strapping chap over there is none other than me old chum, Montebello. A thief and a charlatan of the noblest kind. Half Italian, half... Spanish?"

"Portuguese." Belmont, or rather, Montebello corrected, squinting through his spectacles at burlap bag with the aloof disposition of a naturalist. "I see my last letter found you well. Always a pleasure." The man's voice had an unmistakable Mediterranean lisp to it.

"Always." Jack presented the man with a flourishing bow before turning to his shock-stricken companions. "May I present to you one of my oldest and dearest chums, Anto-" 

Montebello raised his hand to silence Jack. "Is it _entirely_ necessary to toss names about? I've got a king's ransom worth of francs on my head, and no need to have him add a single centime to it."

"Ah, certainly." Jack brushed off his waistcoat as he stood. "Seems you've kept busy since I last saw you in... what was it, Corsica?" Jack tapped a finger against the tip of his nose.

"Cyprus." Montebello corrected once again, and rose to his full height. While he was nearly a full head shorter than Jack, he was a well-built and well-dressed man, with a distinctive diplomatic air about him. He turned his tactful smile to his old friend. "Seems you're getting forgetful in your old age, Sparrow."

Jack smiled lazily. "Like a fine wine."

Montebello inclined his head towards Briault, his near-black eyes narrowing on the bag curiously. "Tell me you've got a plan that consists of something far grander than carrying the man from his own ship, in an old potato sack, at high noon."

Gibbs motioned to the skirts around Briault's bound legs with an open hand. "As ye see, Sir, we've got him dressed to tha nines."

"Rather impossible to miss that fact, my good man." Montebello snorted, the faintest hint of a genuine smile on his lips. "Though I must note, it's markedly similar to his normal attire."

Will's hand on his sword eased. Montebello, while a bit bristling, seemed a competent, sharp-witted and even amiable man. A most fortunate ally in a situation such as this. It left Will much relieved to learn that perhaps Montebello, not Jack, was the mastermind behind this plan. While the infamous Captain Sparrow was certainly a proficient seaman and valiant leader, his plans had the unfortunate habit of going horribly pear-shaped. As to why Will agreed to such a plot, he'd never really know. Perhaps the pints of tafia were to blame, as was usually the case when in the company of said Captain.

"And on such a note, are you sure you wish to continue, Jack?" Montebello pulled the rimmed glasses from his face, casting a surreptitious glower at the man. "While you hold an incontestable likeness to dear Jacques here, his wardrobe has sent many a tailor and sailor screaming into the night."

"Precisely why I plan to continue, mate." Jack gave him a pat on the shoulder as he tightened the tie around Briault's bag, causing the bag to launch into another fit of muffled French curses. "As they say, it's the clothes that make the man. An' certainly no man other than our dear _Capitaine_ here would be caught dead in such apparel."

The bag wiggled in protest.

Casting a disgusted and detached look at the bag, Montebello gave a half-hearted grunt in approval as he moved to the door. "I'll see your men and the captain out, then I've got a few choice words for you, Sparrow."

"Choose them wisely." Jack waggled a brow at the man as he found his way deeper into the Atropos' majestically decorated cabin, fingering every trinket and bobble in plain sight.

Montebello spun to Will, whose expression hadn't changed since the moment he'd stepped in the room. The poor fellow looked beyond baffled at the turn of events, and Montebello couldn't blame him one bit. He nearly pitied the poor lad, who now found himself the timid protégé of a bold captain. He nearly pitied him, but pity was far too often cast by the ignorant. Montebello was far from ignorant. He too had been taken under the very same wing young Will now shrank beneath. That was many long years, hardened wrinkles and thousands of tankards of rum behind him, though.

Briault had somehow managed to wriggle free from his chair and began to flop about the cabin floor like a fish out of water. Gibbs was quick to act, and pounced on the man like a wildcat. Will could not help but crack a smile.

"I'm leaving the Pearl in your charge, Will." Jack called from behind a mahogany desk, his boots propped atop a pile of books. "Or should I say, Captain Turner."

"What?" Will coughed out, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at him. He suspected Jack would never miss the opportunity to make such a joke, no matter how dire the state of affairs may be.

"Rest assured, I don't leave my Pearl in just anyone. She'd never speak to me again if I left her in idle hands." Jack grinned, thumbing the breadth of his mustache.

"B-but Jack," Will shook his head. "I know a good bit about sailing, but not near enough-"

"M'boy," The pirate let out a jaunty laugh. "That's why the Gods blessed us with first mates." His nod indicated to Gibbs who was unsuccessfully grappling with the incensed contents of a burlap bag.

Oh God, Will nearly spoke aloud as he buried his face in his hands.

The first mate looked up, holding one of Briault's legs in an iron-like vice as he sat on the poor man's back with a ridiculous grin on his ruddy face. "Slippery little frog, he is!"

"Gibbsy will show you the ropes." Jack said, rather confidently. "We'll rendezvous in Chocolata Hole Bay by eight bells, in three days time. Keep the Pearl at least half a day behind. I dare not risk her bein' spotted on the horizon. Far too many men aboard this vessel know me ship better than they know me face. In fact, I rely on that holdin' true."

Will nodded, absently, still pondering the weight of his newfound responsibility. Montebello's lips twitched either amusement or annoyance -no one could ever be sure- as he smoothed his crumpled cravat.

"Good? Now, go." Jack waved hurriedly towards the door.

"But..." Will pointed to none too handy Frenchman-in-a-bag. He feared having to explain Jack's absence and Jacques' presence to the crew.

"Keep him in the brig, under watch." The pirate captain grinned, waving a feathered quill in hand like a wand by which to weave his magic. "Don't let him slip above deck. Frogs can swim."

Gibbs tossed the bag over his shoulder, with surprising strength and balance. Even as the bag attempted to wriggle free, he held as strong and steadfast like the experienced seaman he was. Will shot Jack one last defense-shattering puppy dog look, before Montebello corralled him out the front door, barking orders to the idle crew.

"Godspeed, ye magnificent bastard," was Gibbs' final encouragement as he tipped his nonexistent hat to Jack and slipped out the door, a little bounce in his step.

One final puzzled "_Bffmmnt_?" was the last the handsome Atropos heard of its beloved captain as he was carried into the sweltering Cuban sun.

_Author's Note: Leave a review if you've got the time! I really appreciate those I've gotten so far. They're damned encouraging, which comes in handy when you're suffering from a wickedly vicious case of writer's block. (Chapter Nine refuses to cooperate but will be beaten into submission very soon.) As well, if anyone want me to read and review any POTC pieces of theirs, let me know and I'd be more than happy to lend some honest (or dishonest, if that's yer bag) opinions. I'm always looking for new favourites._

_And regarding the title of the last chapter 'Mission Improbable', yes, the reference/pun was intended. I get cheesy like that._


	6. What do you do?

_Chapter Five: What Do You Do With An Angry Frenchman?_

  
The persistent question that plagued mankind since its inception had been answered a number of times by many a scholar and seaman. Will had a handful of viable options at his disposal when it came to what to do with a drunken sailor. But now, Will desperately wished the song had been called "What Do You Do With An Angry Frenchman?" 

As he and his newly appointed first mate circled about the wriggling bag as they stood on the main deck of the _Black Pearl_, Will gave a faltering voice to his thoughts. "W-what do we do?"

Mister Gibbs, the all-knowing and skilled seaman that he was, gave an apathetic shrug. "He's been left in yer care, Captain. I'm naught but yer humble servant."

Good lot of help he was.

Will paced around the moving bag a while longer, shoving a hand through his hair as he ran down the suggestions the aforementioned song provided. As absurd as it was, he began to hum the familiar tune.

_Shave his belly with a rusty razor? Gads, no! Put him in the hold with the Captain's daughter? No, he didn't have a daughter... yet. Throw him in the lock-up 'til he's sober? That's it!_

"Throw him in the lock-up!" Will blurted aloud, silently blessing Jack's habit of singing in his sleep and while drunk, or while participating in any combination of the aforementioned activities. "Gibbs, secure Captain Briault in the lock-up."

"Aye, aye, Sir." Gibbs hoisted the Frenchman back onto his shoulder and carried him one deck down.

Will followed a few steps behind Gibbs, realizing he didn't know where the lock-up was, or even if the _Pearl_ had one. He vaguely remembered freeing Jack from down there once upon a time, but for the life of him couldn't remember for what purpose.

By the time he found himself at Mister Gibbs' side, the Frenchman was already locked away, debagged and untied. His uncapped hair brown hair stuck up in every direction and his clothes were successfully rumpled. As soon as Gibbs had untied his hands, Briault began pacing around the small hay-lined cell, prowling like caged tiger. Will made sure to keep his hands away from the cell, lest the Frenchman would bite them off.

"Well, damnations." Briault paused, balling his fists at his side as he looked irately up at Gibbs. "How much?"

Gibbs froze, and gulped as if he swallowed a mouth full of seawater. "Beg yer pardon?"

"How much? Surely you ask a kingly ransom, which I shall have promptly arranged, upon my release." Briault rubbed his wrists where the rope had bound them and then tried to smooth his hair. "Inform your Captain, without delay."

Gibbs huffed, and then grabbed the bewildered Will, pulling him into a manly clasp. "Why don't ye ask him yerself?" Will winced, noting his first mate smelled not much better now than he did when he first met him. "Captain Turner here will be more than gracious to answer yer every inquiry."

Briault scanned over the boy presented before him, his thin lips twisting into a condescending sneer. "You don't mean to say this... _whelp_ is captain?" 

"Aye, I do mean ta say it!" Gibbs retorted, slapping Will on the back. He felt very much like a blue-medal prized hog being presented before Parliament, as the newly appointed Prime Minister. Laughable, at best. He didn't know whether to deck Jack or hug him for this grave opportunity when they next laid eyes upon one another. He was relatively sure, with a little foresight, he could find someway to combine the two.

Briault looked dubious, and with just reason. "Why, he's far too pale and wet behind the ears! I'd leave naught but a rowboat in his charge." He embellished it with a superfluous snort.

Gibbs crossed his arms over his chest. "Cap'n Turner, here... he's caught a fever." He said, and then added, "Yellow fever, which more than accounts fer his pallor."

"Yellow... fever?" The French privateer lifted a brow as he drew back. Will too expressed his curiosity. He hadn't been sick a day in his life.

"Aye, mighty contagious case of it." Gibbs gave Will an apologetic look -apologetic? he wondered- before stealthy elbowing the boy in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Briault didn't seem to notice.

Staggering back against a beam, Will clutched at his throat, now thrown into a violent coughing fit. He feebly swung his arm at the first mate, only landing a pitiful blow on the man's forearm before another fit racked his body. Briault shrank further into the hold.

"Mighty contagious." Gibbs reiterated, a faint hint of a smile on his sullied lips. "Methinks any day now, the yellow devil'll be knockin' down me door as well." Gibbs embellished his statement with a cough. "And might I note, you're lookin' a might bit peaked yourself there, Captain."

Briault's eyes widened, notably ill at ease. Will unleashed another fit of coughs, his doe-eyes watering as he leaned against the iron bars of the cell.

"Aye, perhaps it's best ye keep to yer cell." Gibbs admonished. "It's but the one true safe place aboard this godforsaken boat."

Briault lifted the lapel of his jacket, covering half his face. "I... I'll keep that in mind."

"On that note," Gibbs straightened, his demeanor remarkably lighter. "The cookie's whipping up some kidney pies. Are ye hungry, Captain? I'd imagine after such a traumatic afternoon, you'd be right famished."

"No, no!" Briault lifted a hand, stopping the man in his tracks. "No, I'll be fine. I'm... not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Gibbs smiled inwardly, snagging Will by the shirtsleeve. "More fer Captain Turner, then. He does need his strength, y'know."

Will wheezed in reply, leaning quite deliberately towards Briault.

"Fine, fine." The Frenchman recoiled further into his cell, burying his head inside his magenta waistcoat. He gave a muffled plea. "Just go!"

They were more than happy to oblige him.

  
Jack had decided long ago as a lad that the French language had but two valid purposes: to romance and to impress. As he little trouble with the former, and no desire for the latter, he had foregone his independent studies of the language. Spanish and its brother Portuguese had seemed far more imperative at the time, and he knew enough Italian to provoke even the most besotted Sicilian girls to slap him.

Conveniently for him, Montebello was something of a scholar and not only spoke English, French, Italian and Portuguese, but as a slew of other useless dead languages as well. He had taken great care in equipping Jack with a slew of handy French phrases. Practical ones, such as _merci_, _s'il vous plaît_ and _la viande est froide_, accompanied every last curse, swear and dirty joke Montebello could recall from his schoolyard days. Jack had taken particular delight in one amusing rhyme about a pious young girl from Bitche.

It wasn't his intellect that made Monty such an invaluable companion, but his sly wit. Most poor fools to end up on the wrong side of his tongue hadn't even known they'd been insulted until Montebello was walking off with the last laugh and their coin purse. His light fingers and flexible morals were likely entirely Jack's doing, but he hardly regretted it. Though he wasn't much to look at, Antoine Montebello was one of his most prosperous pupil.

"Good God, Jack!" The man's clearly aggravated voice wafted across from the room. "It cannot take the better part of half an hour to dress yourself, can it?"

Jack looked down at his exposed torso and realized he'd let his mind wander far longer than he'd intended. He shot the canary yellow shirt still hung neatly on the edge of the changing curtain a harsh grimace. "A little hesitance is to be expected, Monty."

"No doubt. Are you at least decent?" Montebello's laugh was distinctly closer. His dark-capped head popped around the corner before Jack could tell him otherwise. The man scanned over Jack's half dressed form and shook his head as he took a nibble from a biscuit in hand. "This won't do. This won't do at all."

Jack winced. "I'm not the only one who fears this won't work?"

"No, no." Montebello grunted around the biscuit as he pointed to Jack's pants. "You've got them on backwards."

Jack examined his stocking-clad legs and brushed his hands across the pleats of his short-legged trousers. Spinning about to get a better look at his own backside, Jack grumbled in exasperation. "These trousers are to me what that bloody Minotaur's labyrinth was to Theseus! I can make neither head nor tails of it."

Montebello opened his mouth to correct his associate's inaccuracy -that Theseus not only navigated the labyrinth with ease, but also beat the Minotaur to death with his bare fists- but thought better of it. Jack seemed to have no such luck in navigating anything other than the ocean, and try as he may, beating his trousers into submission would serve no greater purpose. Montebello sighed as he retreated back into the sitting area, collapsing in a chair. "Don't bother. It doesn't matter."

Jack assumed, his friend too was lamenting his current arrangement. Turning a pirate into a nobleman overnight was a Herculean feat, requiring nothing less than a miracle. As Jack figured, the heavens held him in no favorable standing, so he didn't bother looking up for a clap of lightning and thunder. Hell too had little reason to open its fiery chasm and offer its assistance. Why, the underworld had likely been waiting for this very opportunity to lay claim to their charming prince. Perhaps his hopes should lean towards the... fictional sort. Though if the lack of wings and pixie dust was evidence, Montebello certainly was no fairy godmother.

One article at a time, Jack slid into his clothing praying the transformation would prove convincing enough to see him through the next few days. Port Royale was the very head of the beast of the Royal Navy's forces in these parts, and one he had no intention to turn. Stepping out from behind the curtain, Jack straightened his back, pushed his shoulder back and puffed out his chest.

Montebello looked up sleepily from his cup of tea, taking one last sip. His bored look quickly perked, approvingly. "Impressive, Sparrow! For hope of his ears burning, you fill out Briault's clothes better than he does!"

"I wouldn't hope so. I've been wearin' em naught but two minutes and I'm already itchin' to get free." Jack squirmed a bit to further prove his point. "I feel like a ripe fruit in this outfit."

"You do look remarkably like a banana. Fortunate for you, no one but I will be subjected to this eyesore this evening." Montebello rose from his seat, circling around Jack, humming with approval.

"What do you mean?" The pirate's mouth fell open in dismay. "All this for naught?"

"Not for naught." Montebello shook his head. "Surely you need a while to grow accustomed to another man's britches. Though, I do believe I've turned a gentleman of fortune into a prince."

Thoroughly pleased to have obtained the esteemed Montebello Seal of Excellency, Jack beamed. The man's praise wasn't idly given.

Montebello shrank as Jack's smile widened and then damn near leapt behind the fainting couch. "Gads, man... your teeth!" He pointed with an accusing finger.

Launching to the nearest mirror, Jack began the manhunt for an errant piece of broccoli or foreign object that could mar his otherwise winning smile."What? Where is it?"

"No, Jack." Montebello placed a hand on his shoulder, coercing him back around. "Last I saw you, you had naught but two gold capped teeth. Not..." He began counting with his fingers. "One, two, three, four, five! How is anyone going to believe you as refined French gentry with half the crown jewels in your mouth?" 

Jack waggled his head a bit. "Let us not forget that two of these jewels I wear because of your own shoddy advice."

"You lay the blame on me? I did warn you about my sister's right hook, did I not?" Montebello's mouth curved at the fond memory of his sister Eva decking the belligerent English captain on Christmas Eve beneath the mistletoe. It had taken the man nearly two pints of eggnog to realize what had hit him.

Jack tossed his hands in the air. "How could I have known you spoke the truth? I based the merit of your advise on the strength of your punch!"

Though Montebello's lips were tight and unyielding, his eyes were alight with laughter. "My punch is considerably stronger now than when I was stripling. I'd grace you with a demonstration, but I fear I may cause you to soil your costly britches."

His body racked with laughter, Jack found his way to the fainting couch he had first found Briault on. He missed Monty's shrewd sense of humour. It had been years since he'd last seen, let alone heard from him. Jack was pleasantly surprised when he received a letter from him nearly four months past. "You know, you tactfully left out some details of this operation in your letters. Feared I'd leave you out?"

Montebello's eyes shot back up, his mouth widening in a pleased grin. "Exactly my reason for not divulging everything to you at once. You can be quite an impatient man, unless you've outgrown that habit?"

Jack fussed with his tights as they bunched at his knee. "If anything, I've grown more impatient with time. Out with it, man!"

"Within this week, Briault is scheduled to drop off the bulk of his shipment in Jamaica. There are three large containers in the hold, mislabeled as 'barley'. Two of those containers are to be purchased by a Mr. Marcus Pullman in Kingston at his small plantation, which no doubt is a cover for Briault's regional operations."

"What about the third?" Jack pried.

Montebello straightened with a cough as he leafed through his journal. "The last shipment is to be sold to a..." He found the page, and tapped the name. "Mr. G.C. LeBeau, in Tobago."

Jack withdrew and the smile on his face fell abruptly at the last word. Come hell or high water, he was not going to Tobago. He had skillfully avoided any business there for nearly five years now, and now was no time to start.

"Something wrong?" Montebello asked as he noticed the changed expression on Jack's face.

"No, no." The pirate shrugged meekly, hesitant to divulge his concerns. "I merely left some unwanted business in Tobago. Or, was that... Trinidad?" 

"Tobago." Montebello confirmed, and then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "That is, if you're alluding to the summer of '31?"

After a guilty pause, Jack nodded in response. "A little misunderstanding, if you recall."

"That I do, and I recall it was _not_ little_ nor_ a misunderstanding. You assaulted the Governor of Tobago's wife!"

"A kiss is not an assault!" Jack defended, crossing his arms across his chest as best his restricting waistcoat would allow, which proved only to incense him further.

"Yours are!" Montebello's face skin reddened as he shook with laughter. "Any fool could see you virtually suffocated the poor woman to death with your tongue! And at her husbands' bloody coronation ceremony, nevertheless!"

Jack raised a finger in point. "A sound argument why we should _not_ go to Tobago."

The _Atropos_ shifted slightly, and the tea in Jack's untouched cup rippled at the movement. Montebello peered out the broken door leading to the terrace. "We're leaving port." He glanced at his gilded pocket watch. "And in record time, undoubted." He rose to his feet, brushing biscuit crumbs of his trousers.

"No Tobago?" Jack clasped his hands together against his chest, batting his eyes with all the grace of a sea cow.

With a belated sigh, Montebello agreed. "No Tobago. I suppose we'll split that last shipment between us coconspirators."

Jack eased back into his chair, a pleased grin on his face. "A fetching proposal, Monty. How long 'til we make berth in Port Royale? If this ship is as fast as she looks, I fear my _Pearl_ won't be able to give chase!" He joked, or at least, he hoped it was a joke. There was something gratifying in maintaining the fastest ship in the Caribbean. It was a title he wouldn't hand over to any ship, particularly one flying French colors.  
  
"With the wind in our favor as it is, the better part of a day. We ought to anchor in at Kingston Harbour by first bell of the forenoon."

"Splendid." Jack relaxed. The _Pearl_ could make it in half a day. His title was secure, for now. "See to it that the crew receives an extra ration, no, _two_ of rum. I want the every last man aboard slobbering drunk by sun down!"

Montebello, or now he supposed he ought to now play Belmont, let out a cheerful "Aye, aye, Sir!"

_Author's Note: XtineSparrowDepp (author of _Coconut Letters_) asked "What does pear-shaped mean?" Admittedly, it's not a term that existed in the 18th century, and though its origin is unknown, it possibly refers to aviation. Instead looping one's plane in a perfect circle (which is damned hard, I've heard), a pilot would end up pulling pear-shaped circle. Simply put, something going 'pear-shaped' means it's all gone wrong and failed rather miserably. It's a chiefly British phrase that I was bombarded while hanging out with some of the local RAF guys. It has bored a special little place in my heart._

_Again, if you've got the time to spare, drop me a review. They make me retarded with happiness! And if you've got a POTC story you want to recommend, please do._


	7. Frère Jacques

_Chapter Seven: Frère Jacques_

Strolling along the eastern docks of Port Royale at a rather merry pace, Jack was finally finding comforts in his alter ego, Jacques. The sun hung languidly in the sky, approaching its noon apex. Dozens of time Jack had walked down these very docks, a wanted man. Now, behind nothing more than a trick of mere smoke and mirrors, Jack was once again a free man. If being Jacques didn't require wearing uncomfortably tight knickers and nearly a stone's worth of embroidered garish clothing, he would give some serious thought to keeping up the charade, if only to elevate his own sense of freedom.

A half smile crept across Jack's face as he shrewdly surveyed the port town's morning inhabitants. Men, who would have stepped on Jack's toes, stepped aside courteously for Jacques. Women, who would have cast their nose down at Jack, batted their eyes and simpered for his attention. Children, who would gawk and laugh at Jack, well... gawked and laughed at Jacques. Children were far harder to trick at such games, as they saw only what they wished to see, and not what was plainly presented to them. A trait Jack wished he possessed.

Jack scratched at his freshly shaven chin, still in awe of the magnitude of his transformation. Jacques was a clean-shaven man, and Jack was anything but. After a heated dispute with Montebello, Jack had lost not only his mustache and beard (both of which he'd maintained so long as he had hair willing to grow there), but a substantial chunk of his flowing locks as well. Jack surmised it would take the better part of a year to grow back to honed perfection. He only hoped his recently excavated baby face (Who knew?) wouldn't dissuade the ladies too much. But if the looks a fawn-haired doxy by the doorstep of a bakery kept sending his way, Jack didn't think that would be a problem.

Montebello had abandoned him shortly after breakfast in dogged pursuit of a dark-eyed, red-haired vixen he had spotted looking 'distinctly lost' on the docks earlier in the morning. Despite the old itch to offer advice to the man who was creeping up on his twenty-seventh year (and without a marriage prospect in sight), Jack refused to scratch it. Jack would have felt awfully two-faced dispensing sound advice to him, and then willfully and shamelessly abandoning such advice when it came to his own love life. Plus, the fact that Jack looked like a pastry puff, in all those flounces and ruffles, did not help further his cause in the slightest. Only a fool would take a man in purple (Montebello had laid claim it was 'lilac', not purple) tights seriously.

Tugging on the tails of his crimson waistcoat and pleading for it to behave whilst out in public, Jack trekked further into the town. His first instinct was to head to his favourite establishment, the_ Ox and Partridge_, though he wasn't entirely sure they were serving at this hour. His presence would also not go unnoticed, and in such a tavern, he might as well just walk in with the bloody French flag wrapped about his shoulders, singing _La Marseillaise_* whilst hitting the patrons over the head with baguettes.

The image brought a faltering grin to his taut lips, but he quickly corrected it.

He must keep a low profile, he assured himself. Though decked out as he was, it seemed near impossible. Street urchins were drawn to his presence, and though their tiny grubby little hands tugged on his heartstrings, he could not risk answering them. Briault was not a charitable man by any stretch of the imagination, or was he a kind one. He was the kind of man, Jack supposed, that kicked puppies for sport and recreation.

Meandering deeper within the city, he came to stand outside an antiques store, which boasted mostly fakes and frauds, Jack determined on closer inspection. He had found a number of forgeries within Briault's own collection. A Ming Dynasty vase that was five years old, at most and shoddily crafted. 'First edition' novels that on further examination had been second, third or even fourth printings. Jack had quite the eye for spotting forgeries at one hundred paces or better, after what seemed a lifetime of piracy and swashbuckling. If by some dire consequence he were forced to turn -perish the thought- respectable, antiquities was something of a lucrative field. That is, if the devil doesn't cash in on his soul first.

Faintly, he heard a name called behind him, but ignored it as he scanned through the window display of the boutique. It wasn't until nearly a full minute after that Jack realized the name called had been his.

"I said, man, are you dumb as well as deaf?" A huffily irritated voice snapped from behind.

Coughing, Jack hoped the frog in his throat would see him through his ruse. _You are Jacques, not Jack. Jacques, not Jack_, he chanted silently as if to chase away the devils of his own loose forked tongue. "If you've come seeking charity, zen your pleas do indeed fall on deaf ears." Jack even amazed himself by the ease at which he slipped into an accent other than his own.

Shuffling, several pairs of feet had taken a bold step closer. "Your charity is not necessary, nor expected. However, your cooperation is."

This was neither the time nor the place to allow some neighborhood hoodlums to rough him up for pocket change, nor to exchange blows with the early morning drunks. Lifting his nose as high as possible, without obstructing his sight, Jack pivoted on his heals, prepared to dig in.

The crowd behind him was far closer, far larger and far more militant than he had expected. A knot twisted at the center of his stomach as he focused on the man just past the very tip of his nose. Commodore James Norrington.

Jack gulped.

Norrington stood nearly a full foot over Jack, his stern face twitching with impatience as he looked down at the man. In his wake, no less than half a dozen sailors armed with muskets and equally as intimidating frowns. The recognizable mug of Norrington's second in command, a man he knew only as Gillette, bobbed just over Norrington's right shoulder.

"While you are unreceptive to my previous requests, I'm glad to see you are not a fool as to take my demands as lightly." Norrington's patience was noticeably thin in the way he spoke and moved. Had it not been for his stature, uniform and presence, he would have looked like one very irate child tugging on the skirts of a preoccupied wet nurse.

Jack handled this situation much as he did most others, with charm, arrogance and feigned innocence. "I heard no requests nor any valid demands."

"Then, Sir, take the wax out of your ears and listen." Gillette chided, standing well behind the shield of Norrington's shoulder.

Jack tossed a callous snort towards his men, including the junior officer. "Call off your English bulldogs, Commodore. Unless, you wish me to leash them myself." Despite the explosive mixture of adrenaline, caffeine and rum, Jack was astonished at the outward calm he was able to exude. 

"How very bold of you, Captain, particularly as you are the very one in need of such a leashing. I am under direct orders to detain you, by any means necessary," Norrington motioned with tilt of his wigged head to a lively sailor to his rear, with iron cuffs shaking in his anxious hands, "and escort you to Fort Charles."

Gulping inaudibly once more, Jack had a valid and gross aversion to Fort Charles, particularly the brig portion of it. "Tell your superior I will not play fox in his hunt. Nor will I be struck down by his pack of hounds." He kept up the false accent, despite the tiny voices in his head telling him it was all for naught.

The Commodore let out an exasperated sigh, rather noticeably distraught. With the slight nod of his head, his sailors advanced on Jack. "We have no time to play such games, I assure you. You haven't been present at any of your foregoing appointments."

"Appointments?" Jack winced. Norrington's kind of appointments were the ones he sorely wished to avoid. "S-surely you misunderstand, Commodore."

"Perhaps it is you who misunderstand my tenacity, _Monsieur_." The last word seeped with disdain. Something flickered in Norrington's unnerving gaze. Contempt? Recognition? Whatever it was, it disturbed Jack immeasurably. Norrington possessed the sort of eyes that could bore deep inside a man's soul, and leave him bereft of wit and breath, without so much as an apology.

He knew. _Norrington knew._

Jack was as good as a dead man.

Dumbfounded at the accusations and discovery of his secret, Jack stumbled backwards. A doughy pale-faced sailor gave him a push in the other direction, deterring his hasty retreat. The dread that had only earlier been trickling into his heart now rushed forward as if the dam of his confidence had been punctured. Worst yet, demolished.

A trace of a smile on his thin lips, Norrington served his orders with smug, expedient satisfaction. "Clap him in irons, men. I'm sure the Governor will see him set with a punishment fitting of a man of his... character."

_Oh, merde._

It had been not even a day since Will found solace in Port Royale. The _Black Pearl_ had launched him a quarterboat while nearly ten leagues off from Kingston Harbour, as not to alert the Royal Navy to its presence. While it was easy to get caught up in the lively afternoon bustle, his thoughts floated to and fro. Naturally, he should have been concerned about Jack, the rum, and Jack whilst in the presence of said rum, but he wasn't. He thought only of Elizabeth. Though he'd not been at sea more than a month's time (which Elizabeth had agreed to and even encouraged), his wife's stomach had grown even larger, which he had thought impossible. He'd been mindful not to squeeze her too hard, even though the aching deep in his heart begged her closeness. She glowed and beamed like he'd only once seen her before, whilst on a daring albeit brief adventure on the high seas. Next time, he promised, he would not leave port without her and their child. He was bitterly determined not to become to his child what his father had been to him: a ghost of a memory.

Thoughts of his family, past and present, haunted his thoughts the entire journey from northern tip of Cuba to southern scoop of Jamaica, and even now that he was waiting nervously in the parlor room of his father-in-law's mansion.

The Governor so rarely called upon him, which was to be expected. Short of the joint fascination in Elizabeth's welfare, they had little in common and even littler to speak of. His wife's father was certainly not a terse man, quite the contrary. He was a warm, forgiving and embracing soul, but unfortunately was cursed with a brain the size of a peanut. Elizabeth must have inherited more than just her comely looks from her mother.

As he twiddled with the feather of his favourite hat, Will startled as the door to the parlor opened abruptly, without so much as a warning creak. He rose and straightened with the stiffness of a soldier, readying himself for an inspection. Though Governor Swann was no military strategist, Will could not over look the fact that the man commanded a significant appropriation of the Royal Navy.

Governor Weatherby Swann gave a slight bow as he slipped into the parlor, his face aglow with delight. "My dear boy, you look near unrecognizable with that rugged tan of yours!"

Will's nose crinkled as he tilted his head in question. Had his skin really bronzed that badly? Elizabeth had mentioned it, but only when she had less tanned and more censored parts to compare it to. "T-Thank you, Sir." Will decided to take it as a gracious compliment.

"I do apologize for my haste in calling on you," said the governor with a genuine smile, "particularly with you only just arriving from a recent expedition."

"Assuredly, I do not mind." Will accepted the apology with a capricious bow.

Governor Swann's face brightened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "But, as you see, an old companion of mine, arrived on the near same day as you. It seems both of you hold a great fondness for chess, am I correct?"

Will nodded impulsively, trying to keep his eyes attentive on the doting father-in-law. He was infectiously charming in his sincerity, almost like a child at times. A child, Will reminded himself, with two thousand armed sailors at his beck and call. "Yes, Sir. I took up the sport as a child, and have dabbled in it for years."

"Splendid!" His father-in-law clasped his hands together. "As much of a military man as I am," Will sincerely tried not to roll his eyes, but failed. "I'm rather ill schooled on the gamut of such sports. If you would indulge me, I'd very much like to watch a master at work."

"Sir, I assure you, I'm no master-"

Swann shook his head. "I'll hear nothing of the sort." He stepped forward, placing a slight hand on the boy's shoulder. "Surely you'll fare better against my dear foe than I ever could."

After a hesitant breath, he consented. "As you wish, Governor Swann."

Corralling the boy through the parlor doors and into a lavish games room, Governor Swann nearly bubbled over with (what Will thought to be) girlish glee. Most of the furniture and decoration centered on a large whist table, which looked costly but well used. Will never would have guessed the Governor for a gambling man. Then again, the man's pocket money was rather equivalent to the national debt of a small country, he surmised. 

Suddenly, Will became alerted to another presence in the room. Tucked in the corner of the room, a dark figure sat relaxed on an overstuffed chair, a brandy snifter tucked in his finely manicured hand. The figure gave the new company little deliberation as he crossed and uncrossed his legs. Though Will couldn't make out the man's face, his firmly-set jaw spoke of unquestioned authority. His upturned nose hinted at generations of nobility and wealth. The sprigs of purple silk in his attire boldly alluded to him as royalty, even if the words themselves were never spoken.

Whether sensing Will's hesitation, or simply being unable to contain himself any further, Governor Swann cleared his through. "This is Master William Turner, my beloved son-in-law."

The man gave an aloof nod in greeting. A tinge of familiarity flashed in his dark eyes, laden with irritation. Will winced.

"William," said the governor, "May I present to you one of my dearest adversaries and dare I say, friends, Captain Jacques Henri Briault."

It took all the restraint Will had left in him not to leap out the nearest bay window.

_Oh, shit._  


_Author's Note: As always, stay tuned for hilarity to ensue! These next few chapters are coming with far less ease than the last, so I may not be so prompt to update the story. I will, assuredly, try my best though. Leave a review if you've got time. They are the best (non-alcoholic) kind of inspiration!_

_*_La Marseillaise_, the French national anthem, wasn't written until 1792 and didn't exist during the timeline of this story (c. 1734) but nevertheless, I had to give a nod to it. While writing this chapter, my winamp player repeated that song for nearly half an hour before I realized what was going on. It haunted my dreams until I finally snuck it into the fic. _La Marseillaise_, here's to you! *toast*_


	8. Checkmate

_Chapter Eight: Checkmate_

As if it weren't hard enough keeping a straight face festooned in lilac tights and matching frilly cravat, Jack had to stare at the bloody whelp all afternoon.

_Brilliant. Just brilliant._

And though the unexpected gaming appointment with Governor Swann and his military escort didn't readily seal his demise, certainly the boy would send him to hell in a hand basket. He considered it a miracle that he'd gotten this deep into the belly of the beast. Weaker men would have floundered. Jack tightened his grip around the only comfort and lifesaver at his disposal, a snifter of brandy. He'd never been much of an aficionado when it came to brandy, particularly when rum was so abundant. But right now, the strong amber liquid was the only thing saving him from almost certain doom.

In all reality, it was rather pleased to see a familiar kind face. After Norrington's convincing little prank, he had half expected the executioner himself to come barge through that parlor door with a noose in hand. It seems neither the Commodore nor his employer were onto his deception.

Yet.

Will and Jack exchanged several conspiratorial looks. Contorting his face as he did, Will's head looked about ready to burst like a tomato, red and shiny. Jack feared his head would do the same if subjugated under these conditions much longer. To have one's head spontaneously explode all over a government official seemed a fitting and welcome end to such roguery.

"Here, over here!" Swann waved to a marbled chess table as he lined up the pieces, to the best of his knowledge. Jack certainly wasn't going to correct the man, as he himself didn't know a pawn from king. Gracefully, he slid into a seat and narrowed his skillfully haughty stare on the perplexed blacksmith.

Will glowered back, none to happy with having to play out such a farce before his very own relative. Had he known he was to endure an afternoon of merry-making with the pirate under these conditions, he would have been far more reluctant to respond to his father-in-law's call. This not only compromised their 'expertly concocted' plan, but their very lives as well. Both men were walking a very fine line, and Will sure as hell hoped Jack knew it.

All they had to do was shut up and look pretty. It worked before. It could work again.

Will was first to move, advancing a white pawn forward. As Will gave a nod to his opponent, it dawned on him that Jack, conceivably, had never played a game of chess in his life. Perhaps he, for once, had the high ground. A shame no money was involved, for Jack had won many a shilling (and once on a very stagnant evening in the Grenadines, his very own pants) off Will in cards. Jack's poker face was not a force to be reckoned with. Though if the quizzical look on the scallywag's freshly shaven face proved evidence, they were royally screwed. 

After a reluctant grunt, Jack plucked his black king and moved it clear cross the board, into the vacant space Will had abandoned in his last move.

"You can't-" Will squinted at the board, counting the squares Jack's king had recklessly bounded over. "That's an illegal move, Captain."

Jack blinked repeatedly as the chessboard, and then looked up at Will as if he could see right through him. "Are not you familiar with ze... French rules?" Jack's accent was astoundingly convincing... to a poor blacksmith barely into of his twenties who had never met a Frenchman in his life short of the day he abducted one. Was the worldly Governor Swann equally as convinced?

"French rules?" Will asked after a skeptical pause.

Jack spoke into his brandy as he sipped it. "_Oui_."

"How charming!" The Governor exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "It must be all the rage in England nowadays, though... I suppose you've not been back for years." He cast a somewhat merciful look Will's way.

Swallowing the quip on the tip of his tongue, Will managed a half-hearted smile. "Yes, many years, Governor. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with such rules. Perhaps _Captain Briault_ could teach me?"

Two sets of eyes, one from the elated Governor and the other from his less than thrilled son-in-law settled on the stranger. "But of course!" Jack blurted out nervously, but quickly regained his composure. "Though I fear I may play too roughly and viciously for this little..._ garçon_."

Will just barely restrained himself from giving Jack a swift kick right in his stupid purple tights.

Though, Governor Swann found it all utterly amusing. "Will is not one to shy from battle, Jacques. Why, once, the strapping young lad fought off a rather unsavory band of pirates, did you not, boy?"

A sly smile of retribution curled Will's lips as he moved his bishop diagonally onto a black square. "Filthy and dimwitted scoundrels, the lot of them, Sir."

The phony Frenchman bristled noticeably at the comment, only serving to deepen Will's smile.

"Oh, are zey?" Jack feigned vague interest as he puffed his chest up beneath a delicately tailored crimson coat. "A scruffy bunch, to be sure, but it seems ze ladies far prefer such scoundrels over, oh, I don't know..." His waving hand was accompanied by a smug sneer. "..._blacksmiths_, or other men of such innocuous occupations."

Before Will could spit out a retort, Governor Swann beat him to it. "William here, is a blacksmith and had not the slightest bit of ill fortune in acquiring my daughter's hand. She's assured me on a number of occasions, he's quite the charmer."

Jack clasped a limp hand to his chest in feigned apology as Will fumed on across the chess table. "Are you a blacksmith? I had not ze slightest clue."

_The hell you did_, Will wanted to shout but rather managed to say, "Of course you didn't. I could not expect a well-regarded Frenchman to have heard of such matters. And, I never got to ask, Captain, what _are_ you doing in Port Royale?"

Jack skillfully avoided the question with an all-encompassing shrug, as if to say 'No reason at all'. Oh, but there was a reason. And a damned fine one at that.

Turning his attention back to the game at hand, Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose in contemplation of his next move. Snagging the black chess piece that he silently dubbed the 'pointy hat chap', he delicately rested it in place of one of Will's white 'castley things'. With a contented sigh, Jack settled back into his chair and gave his opponent a victorious smirk. "Stalemate!"

A grunt of surprise escaped Will's lips as he struggled up in his seat. Darting wearily between the recently moved chess pieces, he spoke. "That would be '_checkmate_', Captain." At Will's correction, Jack merely shrugged indifference. "And I'd be inclined to agree with you, _had_ you compromised my king."

"French rules." Jack reminded him with an arrogant snort. "To compromise a queen is far more dangerous for king _and_ country."

Will's brows must have gone clear to the ceiling. He would have protested once more, but took the opportunity to lay rest to this stunt for now. And Jack was already preoccupied with draining the contents of his half consumed snifter of brandy.

"My, and in only three move?" Governor Swann lifted a monocle and began to examine the chessboard in close proximity. "Absolutely astonishing!"

"Indeed." Will scowled at Jack now that the Governor's attention was elsewhere. Jack deftly countered by sticking his tongue out in a triumphant taunt.

Over the course of the two more rousing rounds of _French Rules_ chess, the two of them managed to conceal various vulgar hand gestures and faces behind the Governor's back.

Both men were more than gracious to take their leave when the Governor granted it them. Jack had managed to make a jackass out of himself, no doubt much as Briault would have. Will had only managed to maim and shred the inner lining of his coat pocket as he had clawed at it, rather than claw the stupid smile from Jack's face, as he so desired to do.

Two rather young footmen escorted both men off the Governor's property. Once outside the large gates, Will kept a brisk pace, wanting putting as much distance between himself and the infuriating pirate as possible. Unfortunately, Jack skipped along side the boy with ease.

"That was the most fun I've had since-"

"Since you humiliated me last, oh, say three days ago?" Will hissed through clenched teeth.

Jack placed a lithe finger against his chin as his eyes rolled skyward in contemplation. "Aye, actually... I do believe you're right. Now that was a sight ta behold!"

Determined to keep his voice down, Will clamped his own jaw even tighter. "Have you even the _slightest_ inkling how close we came to utter ruin?"

Tugging on the sleeves of his waistcoat, Jack merely shrugged his shoulders in indifference. He, so often, had been to the point of utter ruin and beyond that it did little to dissuade him. There was no time to sulk as pressing matters needed attending. "Bring the Pearl around to Hunts Bay at eight bell in the mornin'."

Will opened his mouth to smart off once more, but held his tongue. "H-Hunts Bay? Is that where you are to drop the... umm, goods?" He whispered the last word, as a boy would do a childhood secret.

"Aye, the majority of it." Jack saw little reason to inform his companion on the fact that only two out of three containers were to be sold. The boy hadn't much of a penchant for rum anyhow. "We're almost home free, boy!" Jack slapped Will on the back, hoping to lighten his spirits. "Come high noon tomorrow, you and I will be swimmin' in more sterling silver than we know what ta do with!"

_Author's Note: For all those reviewers out there, I love you. Platonically. From everything to fueling some much needed inspiration to catching mispellings (XtineSparrowDepp's got a damn keen eye. Thanks!) to just making me happy, you guys are the icing on the cake o' fan fiction._


	9. To Catch a Wink

_Chapter Nine: To Catch a Wink _

Hunts Bay, resting to the west of Kingston Harbour, was lifeless and dead in comparison to Port Royale's bustling docks. The still algae-tinted waters settled across the bay as if it were a never-ending plate of stained glass, marred only occasionally by a quarterboat or rowboat. Four strangers accompanied Will and Mr. Gibbs as they stood atop the salt-bleached pier that jutted into the bay. Jack, or rather, Jacques was always a prompt man, one of the more surly looking gentlemen pointed out, whilst tapping his foot impatiently. That was fifteen minutes ago.

The sun beat down against their brows, as there was not a cloud in the sky to shield them. Few words passed between the party of pirates and party of merchants as they shifted uncomfortably in the blazing sun. Gibbs was wearing an ill-fitting brown woolen suit that he wore many years and many stones ago. It had taken nearly half the _Pearl_'s crew and Anamaria's deft sewing hand to get him into it, much to the fabric's protests. Marcus Pullman, a short rotund, red-faced chap with a wispy blond mustache fluttered a fan against his sweat-mopped face, growing more agitated and red with every passing moment. Whereas he was amiable upon their introduction not more than a quarter of an hour earlier, Pullman was noticeably agitated now.

"Mister Turner," the man spoke with a foreign lisp and an accent Will could not place, "You must understand my concern when my most trusted supplier arrives even but minutes late. I am a man of business, and my time means money."

"Yes, Sir." Will bowed his head subserviently as his heart beat irregularly fast in his chest. "I assure you, Captain Briault will arrive and compensate you for your time. He, too, is not an idle man."

Pullman rolled his beady black eyes. "I would most certainly hope not, Mister Turner. I have many customers waiting for this... barley."

Not but five minutes later did the company spot the _Atropos_ round the bay's end, its French colors flying at a modest height. Will hissed a sigh of relief and anguish as the large brigandine nestled into dock. Jack strolled out, dressed in fine silk of gold and teal with an obscenely large feathered hat. Montebello, portraying the very picture of a timid young Londoner followed behind the Captain, piles upon piles of journals and papers bundled arms.

"Ah, Mister Pullman!" Jack would have offered the man a flourishing bow, but feared his hat would cause him to tip over. Instead, he begrudgingly curtsied. "Forgive my lateness, but my bumbling imbecile of a first mate did not show up until the very first signs of dawn!"

Montebello had the good graces to blush for that was not a fabrication of Jack's imagination. He had spent most of the evening with a striking blonde Dutch girl, whose name he had successfully forgotten by morning. Greta? Or was it Gretchen?

The plantation owner, though evidently perturbed, offered a cordial greeting to both the French captain and his first mate. Though within a moment of shaking their hands, it was down to business. "I take it our _cargo_ arrived safely and without difficulty?"

Jack gave Pullman a none-too-subtle knowing wink at the mention of said cargo. "Yes, your _cargo_," another wink, "is stowed quite safely. If you'd allow my men to retrieve the _cargo_," yet another wink, "we may part with much haste."

A smug smile settled on the plantation owners face as he signaled two of his able bodied slaves to bring the wagon around as the _Atropos_' crew began to lower the crates, one by one, onto the dock.

"It's been a pleasure, Captain." No further words passed between the businessmen as Pullman slipped a thick envelope from his jacket and placed it in Jack's.

Notably, the pirate's eyes bulged as he stealthily surveyed the amount of paper money crammed into the small envelope. Roughly four thousand sterling, he surmised. As an ecstatic smile tugged at the corners of his lips, Jack straightened. "Ah, _merci_, _Monsieur_ Pullman. My felicitations to you and your... _cargo_." Another barrage of knowing winks followed.

Will, Gibbs and Montebello stood around the brightly dressed Captain, all of them just barely able to control their enthusiasm.

As soon as Pullman and his companions scuttled off into the horizon with their cargo in hand, Will smacked the stupid dapper little hat right off Jack's head. "You idiot! You couldn't have been more subtle, could you?" The blacksmith crossed his arms over his chest, bubbling with previously unspoken quips.

Sneering as he reared back, Jack shrugged. "Whatever do ye mean, boy?"

"All that bloody winking!" Will proceeded to demonstrate, fluttering his lashes at odd intervals. "Had I not known better, I would have thought you had a nervous twitch!"

Jack gave a halfhearted shrug as he tucked the envelope of money (which he had already counted thrice in under a minute) into the liner pocket of his embroidered vest. The _Atropos_ set sail once again, headed for the hidden cove that bore the _Black Pearl_.

Fulfilling a promise he never intended to keep, Jack handed the _Atropos_' command to Anamaria as soon as she laid eyes on the impressive brigandine. At hearing such wonderful news, she leapt clear to Jack's shoulders, hugging him for his charity and clawing at him for not doing it earlier.

Each man aboard the _Atropos_ was compensated generously for his time, and Jack saw to it that no crewmember left without a bottle in each hand, or in One Armed Bob's case, two in each hand. A number of the _Atropos_' crew remained on board, and even few turned on the account to do so.

All was well aboard the _Black Pearl_, once again. The crew, thought they lamented Anamaria's absense (particularly Gibbs, who had grown fond of the girl as of late), was in particularly high spirits as they sang and bandied about the quarterdeck. Mister Cotton and his parrot danced up a surprisingly coordinated jig as Marty, Ladbroc and Crimp sang a little ditty.

The bottles of rum had been appropriated amongst the crew, and there was much cheer as Jack rose to his feet atop a large barrel and uncorked a bottle. As cheers and grunts of approval from the crowd grew to a feverish pitch, Jack raised the bottle above his head. "Here's to freedom, boys!"

The crowd erupted in cheers as Jack tipped back the bottle, chugging a substantial portion in seconds.

As soon as he pulled the bottle from his lips, the colour drained from Jack's face. His smile wilted into a bewildered grimace and his merrily shining eyes burned with the very flames of hell. The crew had only mere seconds to shield themselves from the fine mist of rum that Jack spew forth as he let out a surprising yelp. "Bloody fuckin' hell!"

Everyone turned around. When Jack says 'fuck', one had to wince. He did not toss around that word so lightly as the others aboard.

Jack stumbled off the barrel, clutching the bottle in his right hand as his still-shaven face scrunched up in indignation. "Is this some sort of bloody joke?" He spun to face Montebello, spitting lividly with each word.

"N-No." Montebello leaned back, cleaning the spittle from his spectacles with the back of his knuckle. "What's gotten into you, man?"

Shaking with a rage no one aboard the _Pearl_ had ever laid witness too before, Jack extended his arm and poured the entire contents of the bottle on the deck (much to Mister Gibbs's dismay) and then tossed it over the side of the ship. "It's water!" Jack bellowed as he rubbed his mouth against his sleeve, as if he has just nipped some turpentine. "It's nothing more than tinted fuckin' _water_!"

_Author's Note: Ah, the plot thickens, eh? Oh, and it gets even more convoluted! Many thanks to those who have reviewed this story so far! I'm quite amazed at the amount and quality of the reviews, and I take every one to heart. I'm also quite pleased (and suprised) to hear someone found this story worthy enough to be mentioned in a journal! Hot diggity damn! Thanks again!_


	10. There's the Rub

_Chapter Ten: There's the Rub_

There was a moment of shocked silence, as the populace of the Black Pearl was at a complete loss of words. Jack's eyes had gone cold as he surveyed the quarterdeck, hunting for the head of the man who owed him one damn good explanation. "Antoine!"

Montebello had melted into the crowd and was now perched on a barrel, his head held low in brooding silence. His thin face whitened to a sickly shade of olive as he stumbled for an explanation. "H-he said it would be here, Jack. I swear to you."

"Oh, who's this _he_, Monty?" Jack snapped with barely restrained indignation. "Don't tell me you've been dealin' with those bleedin' gypsies again!"

Shoving a trembling hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, Montebello shook his head. "No, no gypsies. I... I overheard the Lieutenant General of Police in Versailles-"

"Great. The only word less reliable than that of a gypsy is that of a Frenchman." Jack cried in evident exasperation. His patience, naturally thin, was stretched beyond its limitations. Jack Sparrow prided himself on using his brains more oft than his brawn, but so help him God, if Montebello didn't start speaking truths soon, Jack feared the man was in for a right pummeling. "Ye really think the Lieutenant General of the _bleedin_' French Police, a man of grand birth and gentry would be even a _wee_ bit concerned with some rumrunner half-way 'cross the world!"

All eyes were on Montebello, as his face burned under the heavy scrutiny of the crew. He dare not look up, for fear of catching sight of the lingering disappointment in Jack's eyes. Knowing he failed a good friend was punishment enough, but seeing it could near reduce him to tears. Instead, he let Jack's words tumble around his thoughts for a while. The pirate, for all of his shortcomings when it came to sobriety, was surprising astute. Perhaps Montebello had misheard the parlor conversation entirely. Perhaps it wasn't-

"May I interject for a moment, Cap'n?" Gibbs- a most unlikely candidate for an original thought- stepped into Jack's line of sight. Jack said nothing, but inclined his head ever so slightly at his first mate, signaling him to speak. "Leastways, as I see it, whatever it is we've got in those crates there, that Pullman fellow was willing to pay right handsomely for their twins."

The cloudy disposition hanging over Jack Sparrow cleared as he mulled over Gibbs' words. "Mister Gibbs, I do believe ye're right." Jack gave him a brisk pat on the back as walked over to the crates, giving one an experimental kick. "Break open these crates, men! All of 'em. Search every bottle, every plank! First one of you to come up with somethin' worth my while, double- no, triple rations!"

With such a reward of triple rations of rum at hand (a rare treat indeed from a man so enamored with the libation himself), the crew attacked the remaining crates like a swarm of termites. Some of the newer crew, those who had once served under Briault, were quite rough, tossing the younger or less eager out of the way as they rummaged through the bottles.

"Ah, look at 'em go," Jack sighed as he climbed the steps to the forecastle deck. "They'll sleep good tonight."

"What do you suppose is in there?" Will accompanied him, following a few steps in his wake. "Diamonds from Africa? Silks from China?"

"Ah, now ye're catchin' on to why piratin' is such a lucrative career, aren't ya, Turner?" With his spirits fully regenerated, Jack was once again free to smile. "It could be any manner of thing. Ivory, rubies, coffee... I suppose a gentleman o' fortune can't be too particular, now can he?"

Will was nearly shaking with excitement as he watched the crew break the crates down. His moral conscience scolded him for being anything other than morose at the prospect of stealing anything from anyone (whether he deserved it or not), but a seductive devilish little voice in the back of his head bade him to enjoy it while it lasts. For as soon as the Black Pearl pulls into Port Royale, William Turner must return to the life he left but a month ago. Goodbye sailing, goodbye drinking, goodbye carousing around Cuba in the dead of night dressed in women's underwear. All good things must, unfortunately, come to an end.

"I found sumpin', Cap'n Sparrow! I found sumpin'!" A stout ruddy-faced little man, one of the new men, huffed and puffed his way up to the forecastle deck with an infectious smile (not to mention, infectious bad breath). "A paper here, wit' some scribblies on it, Sir."

Scribblies, indeed. The paper in question, once unfolded, was what appeared to be little more than a yellowed map of the Lesser Antilles. Hardly suspicious or worth further investigation, Jack shoved it in his inner jacket pocket and turned to the crew to spout out some more encouragement "Keep at it, men! Triple rations, remember!"

As the crew scrambled and fought over the last containers, Jack motioned for a dejected Will and a somber Montebello to retire with him to the Captain's Cabin. "Come, gentlemen," Jack made a beeline for his special reserve of spirits hidden away in a loose floorboard under his desk. "Buck up! Least we've got our health, eh?" He shot a conspiratorial smile at his companions, who looked about a healthy and lively as a pair of corpses. "Let me rephrase that. Least we've got my health. Both of ye look as if ye've been scrappin' with the yellow devil himself!"

A perplexed look crossed Will's face. Isn't that what Gibbs said to... "Briault!" Will leapt up from his seat, the chair toppling over behind him. "Whatever is in those crates, Briault surely knows what it is."

"A brilliant deduction, ta be sure, Will." Jack seemed less enthused about the idea. "But unless ye remember were you marooned the ol' froggy, we're shite out of luck."

Will scratched his head, sheepishly. "He's in the brig."

Jack gaped, and for the first time in his life, Will surmised, was speechless. Though that only lasted mere moments. "Ye mean to say ye've been escorting around a Frenchmen in the brig of my ship as you prance around Port Royale?"

"You left me little recourse, Jack," He replied, a little healthy colour flushing his cheeks. "I wasn't about to maroon the man simply because he got in the way. I'd think you of all people would agree to that!"

"Gentlemen." Montebello's voice rose to a barely audible whisper, but it was enough to stop Jack's poised retort. "Let us dispense with the particulars and go get ourselves some answers. What do you say?"

Briault hardly looked like the proud peacock he once was. The grand splendor that was his fashionable attire had pierced with stalks of hay and soiled with dust. His cool aloof demeanor was stretched thin, and he now wore a permanent scowl of disgust. He had refused all meals afforded to him, spat in every face that came within the splash zone, and shouted loud insults to whomever could hear.

And now, he had to entertain company.

Jack Sparrow was in rare form that evening as he climbed down the steps, and by God, for some reason he felt the overwhelming urge to sing, much to his companions' discontent. "_Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-v-_"

Briault wailed in protest from his corner of the cell as he tried desperately to cover his ears. "_Non! Je ne dors pas! Va aux diable!_ Is it not enough that you offend my ears with that screeching and my eyes with your presence, but that you must too murder my language?"

"For yer sake, Jacques, let us hope that is the only murderin' that gets done today, eh?" Jack winked at him, and dared take a step closer as Will and Montebello kept to the shadows. "Now down ta business. What's in those crates?"

Briault's chapped lips tightened into a thin frown. "I do not know of these crates you speak of."

"Of course ye do, Jacques. Three crates, about four feet off the ground, made o' wood, says BARLEY on the side."

"If it says _barley_, then even you should be able to deduce that it indeed contains _barley_."

"Ay, there's the rub, Jacques." Jack circled around the cell, to steal a better peek at his nemesis. "No barley in sight. Nothin' but bottles of water and," he rummaged through his pocket and withdrew the folded map, "_this_."

"Give that to me." Briault barked his command, as if he were reigning captain of the ship. "That letter does not concern you. Give it to me."

Montebello stepped forward from the shadows, his face illuminated only by the flickering light of the lantern. "You are in no condition to give order, Captain."

That seemed to be the last straw. Briault leapt to his feet and began to hurl insults and spit in his captors' direction. Will tiptoed, unnoticed, to hide behind Montebello, finding the scholar made the perfect human shield. Jack merely stood his ground, refusing to budge or even wince as spittle soaked into his favourite (and only) jacket. "Spit an' bitch all ye like. I assure ye, I have all day."

Briault managed to continue his performance for a solid five minute longer, until he found himself suffering from a lack of fresh insults and a wicked case of cottonmouth. He slumped against the metal bars, shooting daggers at Jack with his eyes as best he could. "I will tell you nothing. You are wasting your time."

Jack was not willing to play games this evening, and rather than try to wait out the standoff, left Briault to his own devices, vowing to pick up the interrogation first thing tomorrow morning.

As Jack and his compatriots took their leave to the Captain's Cabin, Gibbs stopped by briefly to report that the men had found forty-three nails, ninety-seven unmarked wooden planks and three-hundred-and-seventy-four bottles, all empty. Jack dismissed him, and ordered Gibbs to halt the search and tap a barrel of rum for the boys. With a jaunty smile, Jack's first mate thanked him and skated off to deliver the goods.

"What is that letter that Briault was so intent on getting, Jack?" Montebello, whose mood seemed to be lightening, asked as he shrugged off his coat onto teak dining chair.

"Oh, that. Its not a letter, its a map." Jack reached into his jacket pocket, his face scrunching up in utter disgust as he found the inner lining soaked with Frenchman's spittle. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but... I'm gonna go take a bath."

"You? Bath willingly?" Montebello feigned shock. "The last time you took a bath on your own accord had to be... what, 1726?"

"1726. Siam. Took a bottle of cheap perfume to the eye. Smelled like a dandy for weeks. I know, I know." Jack grunted, as he fished all the trinkets out of his coat pockets and tossed the jacket on a chair next to the fire to dry. He kicked off his boots and discarded his belt as well, before giving a grand bow. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me." Jack left the cabin, and moments after heard a loud splash and an echoing _"Shit! Cold-cold-COLD!"_ on the larboard side.

"Some bath." Will mumbled under his breath as a smile twitched at his lips.

Only just able to suppress a chuckle, Montebello unfolded the map on the table and gave it a sound looking-over. "And _this_ was all they found? No jewels, no riches, no smoking gun, no red herring?"

"That's all they came up with." Will shrugged, equally as perplexed. The map looked just as plain and innocuous as it did only an hour ago. He picked it up, only to have the slightly damp paper tear at the corners. "Good lot it will do us like this." Will smoothed out the damp map on the table before pinching the two top corners and waving it a safe distance over the heat of a nearby candle intending to dry it out.

Will and Montebello, practically strangers were it not for their common friendship with Captain Jack Sparrow, spoke nothing more elaborate than a few friendly grunts as they kept to themselves. Having found Jack's small library of neglected books out of alphabetical order, Montebello passed the awkward moments by arranging and rearranging the books. Occasionally, the silence was cut by a cheer from Jack as he splashed around outside or a jaunty melody sung (shouted) by the drunken crew below. Will knew the tune well, and sung softly along with the men as his thoughts turned towards his Elizabeth.

_I prithee speak more softly, of what we have to do, lest that our noise of talking should make our pleasure rue. The streets they are so nigh, love. The people walk about. They may peep in and spy, love. So blow the candles out._

At some point Montebello had begun to sing along, but apparently did not know the tune as well as Will, and simply kept repeating the last line. After a while, it got a bit distracting. "Blow the candle out, Turner! _Blow the blooming candle out!_"

Successfully snapped out of his little reverie, it was only then that Will smelled the smoke and felt the tendrils of heat brush across his wrists. Fire had engulfed the map, swallowing up the bottom half of the paper before Will could even get his wits about him. He slapped it onto the table and patted it down until the flames gave way to ash, and the fire was put out. Will blushed crimson read as Montebello looked sorely irritated. "Well, there goes everything! Jack's going to have a fit!"

"Wait. N-not everything." Will gulped as his eyes scanned the paper. "Look."

The map, though badly burn and now half-missing, was blackened around the bottom fringe, but still quite readable along the top. The Grenadines were entirely burnt off, but Porto Rico and the northern islands were in prime condition, though the fire had caused some irregular burn marks to appear. "I... don't know what I'm looking at, Turner." Montebello professed his ignorance. "What is it?"

Will flipped the paper over with a trembling hand and pointed. Those burn marks perhaps weren't so irregular after all. Words were burned into the paper, written originally in lemon juice or something equally as acidic. The heat had uncovered the hidden letters, though some were far too blurry to read. All that could be made out was:

DU CABINET NOIR  
M.S. DAUNTLESS  
ANDRE GILLETTE

And that's when Montebello hit the floor.

* * *

_Author's Note: Many apologies for the incredible delay. Here's to picking up where I left off! Jacques is bacques! Reviews would be much appreciated an' cherished._


	11. Don't Shoot the Messenger

_Chapter Eleven: Don't Shoot the Messenger _   
  
Will stared at the paper in disbelief. This discovery left him destitute of breath as he gripped the edge of the bow-legged Queen Anne table to keep from toppling over like Montebello had been so prompt to do. Will read the words aloud, hoping the sound of them on his lips would dispel the cloud of bewilderment and bring some solid answers into sharp relief.

"Gillette," he softly echoed the last word as he brushed a finger across its darkened letters. "It can't be."

"What can't be?" Jack's gruff voice asked, as the cabin door swung open. Wearing little more than a wicked grin and a towel draped across his tanned shoulders, Jack stretched out across his freshly stolen chintz settee.

Will tossed a sidelong glance over his shoulder. "Oh, for the love of decency, Jack!" He grew red in the face as he caught sight of the naked pirate.

Jack, who found nothing even the slightest bit offensive or indecent about his present state of undress, clucked in protest. "Well, fine manners ye've got there, young Turner. You insult a man's sense of fashion in his very own quarters? Have ye no shame?"

"Have you?" Will bit off, then awkwardly averted his eyes. "J-Just cover up, will you? I can't think with you waving that... _thing_ all over the place."

"Don't say I never did anythin' for ye," grumbled Jack. Rifling through his armoire, the pirate compromised with a pair of crimson breeches and a white linen shirt he had stolen from the less garish drawer of Briault's wardrobe. His own clothes, hung up on a line next to the fire, were still soaked to the lining with _Eau de Jacques_. "What's got ye in such a tizzy anyway, boy?" Jack cried as he shrugged the shirt over his head.

Will listlessly motioned to the map, then to the man unconscious on the floor.

"Ah, see? I knew ye two would get along famously." Jack chuckled to himself, and then settled into a seat across the mahogany table from Will. His eyes grew wide as he spied the charred ruin that was once a map, but the hidden script quickly caught his attention. After a weighty silence, he sighed. "Oh, dear."

"Oh dear?" Will spat in frustration. "_Oh dear!_ Is that all you've got to say? I don't know what the hell your dear old friend got us into, but I don't like it one damn bit."

Jack was a bit incredulous. Will must have meant business, for he managed to swear not once, but twice in one breath. "Calm down, mate. I'm sure there's a logical an' sound explanation for all of this. Who's this Andre Gillette fellow the letter mentions?"

"I can only assume Lieutenant Gillette, what with the mention of the Dauntless bit a line above his name." Will grunted, his eyes dark as he stared at the flickering. "That bastard came to my wedding, Jack. He kissed Elizabeth's hand, and I let him.

"That fellow?" Jack quirked a brow. "Now that ye mention it, I never did like him. Always had an ill-favored look about him, like he knew he was up to no good."

Will laughed scornfully, his voice raw with emotion. "Peculiar words coming from a man who lies, cheats and steals for a living."

"I'm a one man crime wave, I am," chuckled Jack. "But really, piracy and espionage are worlds apart, my boy. I may lie, cheat an' steal, but it just ain't very sportin' to kill a man in cold-blood."

"You seemed to have no misgivings against it." Will admonished.

"I, uh... Oh, yes." Jack withdrew a bit into his chair, as if he were a child caught in a grand fib. "Well, there was that _one_ time. But in my defense, mate, the man was already dead when I shot 'im."

Will just shrugged, for he could hardly refute what he had seen with his own eyes.

A comfortable silence settled between the two men as Will and Jack rifled through a recently 'acquired' box of _cigarros Cubanos_, a treat he had never had the pleasure of indulging in before. After lighting the end like he had witnessed countless high-toned gentlemen do, he gave it a few experimental puffs and kicked back in his chair, propping his feet on the table. Montebello, still little more than an unconscious puddle of gray corduroy under the table, began to snore softly, but otherwise refused to contribute to the conversation.

"We have to give the letter to Governor Swann." Will shattered the silence with his sudden declaration. "Immediately."

"The Governor?" Jack coughed, swallowing a burning mouthful of cigar smoke in the process. "Oh, what would Swann do, anyhow? He's little more than a puppet figurehead these days. Smile, nod, sign this paper, have dinner with the Minister of This-an'-Such and the Governor of Where-Ever-the-Hell. You know as well as I, our dear Commodore Norrington is the one whose pullin' the strings 'round Fort Charles. And he'd sooner hang us than believe his second in command was a spy for the bloody Bourbons."

"Then if not Governor Swann, someone higher up." Will's face lit up as he leaned forward in his chair. "King George! Surely he could-"

"He could." Jack interrupted. "But he won't. Least, not soon enough. Ye want to know what I think we oughta do?" Before Will could squeak out a _no_, he elaborated with a dark twinkle in his. "We take care of Gillette ourselves."

"Absolutely not, Jack!" Will hissed through gritted teeth. "A traitor he may be, but he's trained just like any sailor in the King's Navy. And we haven't any more evidence than this single letter to support our claims. Its barely enough to spark a formal inquiry against him.

"Then, what say you, we make a formal inquiry of our own. Briault was the one haulin' this stuff around ta begin with. Surely he can shed a little light on our predicament." Jack snuffed out his stub of a cigar on the tabletop (finish be damned) and pushed himself out of his chair.

It was time for another trip to the brig.

Jack woke Briault up with a swift kick to the knee that inspired a colourful string of insults that no language barrier could obscure. Even mild-mannered Will Turner took a few pot shots at the Frenchman, feeling frustrated and altogether betrayed. The thought that he and Elizabeth had been residing in the midst of a villainous traitor all these years chilled him to the bone. Fortunately, Briault began blubbering in a manner most unfashionable of a man of his station when droplets of blood from his broken nose (likely only fractured, Gibbs announced upon later examination) began to stain his soiled shirt. "Please! I surrender! I surrender!"

"Tell us what you know of Gillette!" Will barked as he caught a handful of the Frenchman's cravat and hauled him to his feet.

"Who? I know no Gillette, I swear to you." Briault shook his head fervently, his façade cracking under pressure. "Who is this Gillette? I know no Gillette."

"No time to be tellin' fibs now, Jacques." Jack shoved a grubby accusing finger in his counterpart's face. "Who's mail have ye been haulin' around? Playin' messenger boy fer Louis the... what are they up ta now, thirteenth?"

"Fifteenth," Briault blurted out, but recoiled as he quickly realized his folly.

The correction was confirmation enough for Jack. "So King Louis sends ye out ta piddle about the West Indies with a brigandine fulla parcels, no doubt of a sensitive nature. I've gotta say this, Jacques, my boy. I was mighty disappointed to find not a drop of rum in yer hull. Not a one. Fine ship though."

"My ship! What have you done with her, you wretch!" He bawled and lamented for his ship as if he lost the love of his life. "If I find so much as a scratch on her, there will be hell to pay, Sparrow."

Jack placed his hand over his heart in a grand gesture. "Not a blemish on her, I swear. I'm sure Anamaria will keep 'er fit and shiny. A fine Captain she'll make."

It took a moment for shock to register on Briault's face. "Y-you gave my ship to a woman? A _woman_? How _dare_ you use my ship to dote upon some floozy, as if it were your own to give! I will see you hung for this, Sparrow, if I must tie the rope around your neck and choke the life from you myself!"

In a quick fluid motion, Jack retrieved a cleverly concealed flintlock pistol from his right boot and held it against Briault's temple. "I dare you to say that one more time."

Will, who had been content to stick to the background, was but seconds away from interjecting. He didn't like the way this was going, not one bit.

The irate Frenchman froze, and his stern countenance quickly melted into a guilty nervous smile. "I retract my words. You have my greatest apologies, _mon Capitaine_. My deepest apologies. What is it you English say? Do not shoot ze messenger." Briault shrugged, palms facing up in an admission of defeat as he tried to weasel his way out.

"This is yer last chance to come clean. All or nothin'." Jack withdrew the pistol from Briault's temple, but kept his finger on the trigger as a lingering threat. "What was in those crates?"

"Monsieur Sparrow, I assure you I am just as uninformed as you. I would be a liability to my self and the crown if I had even the barest knowledge of what it is that I am shipping. I ask no questions. I receive no answers. I provide my King with an utmost manner of discretion, and for that, I am well compensated."

"I would hardly consider anythin' about you _discreet_, Captain." Jack scoffed. Briault's tattered silk waistcoat, despite the dingy dust, was still an eye watering shade of green. "You couldn't be more _discreet_ if you wore a flippin' _bullseye_ on yer back."

"I only tell you what I know, _mon Capitaine_." Briault clasped his hands together, and held them to his chest. "Please, I know no more. _Je ne sais plus_."

He knew no more. And they left it at that.

Upon returning to the cabin, both men fairly exhausted from the physical exertion and excitement of being up a froggie and the lateness of the hour, they were most surprised to find Montebello mulling about the cabin, rifling through a trunk beneath Jack's hammock.

"Find anythin' interestin', Monty?" Jack's voice cracked across the empty room, and Montebello damn near shot clear to the ceiling.

"Curse you. Don't sneak up on me like that!" cried Montebello as he kicked the trunk closed and then turned to his companions. "I've got a splitting headache. Tell me you've got something other than rum. Anything."

"Water." Jack suggested, with a point to the sea outside.

"Fat lot of help you are, Sparrow," grumbled Montebello as he claimed Jack's chintz settee and cradled his head in his hands. "I assume from all the whimpering and sniveling I heard, you paid Monsieur Briault a visit?"

Balling his fists to display an impressive set of bloodied knuckles, Jack nodded. "A visit of tha best kind."

"Gads." He inspected Jack's knuckles with a sneer. "No need to go to such Draconian measures with that fellow. I imagine if you merely threatened to step upon his favourite hat, he would squeal like a schoolgirl."

"Aww, but where's tha pleasure in that?"

Waving at the bloodied knuckles dismissively, Montebello asked, "Well, what did you manage to pummel from Monsieur Briault?"

"Nothing of much help," confessed Will as he collapsed in an lush velvet-lined chair he could have sworn he'd seen on the Atropos but days earlier. "He doesn't know what was in the letter, or whom it was sent from nor to."

"Think he's lying?" The question was directed at Jack.

"Oh, he's not lyin'. Ya should have seen it, mate. He was this close," Jack pinched his thumb and forefinger together, "to pissin' his breeches. This close."

"Your powers of intimidation are unsurpassed." Montebello rolled his eyes, before continuing. "I'm not surprised to hear he's unawares of what he's been shipping around the Atlantic. One must wonder exactly when he abandoned the rum running in favour of playing errand boy to the Cabinet noir."

"Cabinet noir? Whuzzat?"

Montebello cleared his throat. "French for 'Black Chamber'. They're as obscure as they name suggests. The Cabinet noir is an institution, albeit one that the French government loathes to speak of, that combs through every last letter, parcel and shipment sent through their post. Cryptographers and military men fill out their ranks, so Briault, being neither, has likely never risen to anything more commendable than 'Obedient Lackey'."

"Oh." They sighed in union. Then Will asked. "But what are they doing out here then?"

"That's what I've been wondering myself, Turner. They're chiefly concerned with domestic affairs, rarely, if at all, venturing outside of Europe. There's something right peculiar about all this. That note... it was just sloppy."

"It was jus' half burnt, that's what it was." Jack grunted under his breath.

"Well, I suppose we have no option now, if we want the truth. We sail for Tobago in the morning." Montebello declared.

Jack shot up from his chair. "Tossin' about orders on _my_ ship? Yer mama taught ya better'n that, Monty. Plus, whadda we need to go to Tobago anyhow? Me crew's dismantled the crates beyond all recognition. No one in their right mind would shell out a piece o' eight for that sad lot'a scrap wood."

"They don't have to know that. A box is a box is a box."

"Do we hafta?" the pirate whined, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Think about it, Jack." Montebello tossed a conspiratorial smirk at him. "The only thing the British crown holds in a lesser regard than a pirate is a spy. I'd think, no, I know presenting a handful of French spies to the King on a silver platter would be a task so worthy of gratitude that it could _completely_ clear your transgressions against the crown. You could become a modern-day Frances Drake."

"Sir Jack Sparrow." Jack whispered, the name dripping off his tongue like honey. "Captain Sir Jonathon Augustus Sparrow the Third. Now that's more like it."

Will and Montebello exchanged curious glances. Will mouthed _"Augustus?"_ Montebello just shrugged and countered by mouthing _"The Third?"_

"Right then." Jack slapped his knee, breaking from his knighthood-induced reverie. "We sail in the morning, eight bell. For..." he coughed, "Tobago."

And so that night, they drank a toast to their new adversary. _To la Belle France._

* * *

_Author's note: A shiny new piece of eight for the first person to spot a Fast Show reference! Johnny Depp snuck one in the movie ("And then they made me their chief.") and I could not resist the temptation myself. And once again, reviews and comments would be much appreciated. And anyone with any questions about any historical references, feel free to shoot me an email and I'd be more than happy to clarify anything.  
_


	12. Tempting the Fates

_Chapter Twelve: Tempting the Fates_

Eight bells rang out across the _Black Pearl_, and four listless sailors appeared to relieve the blurry-eyed Morning Watch. The decks got their first scrubbing of the day. The sails were raised and on Jack's command, the ship lurched out Point Morant, the easterly most point in Jamaica. The course was set, due east to Isla Beata, an island off the southern coast of Hispaniola. From there, the _Pearl_ would have to make the treacherous two-day trip to Aruba then follow the coast of New Granada for another two days on to their final destination: Tobago.

Tobago, though presently a neutral territory, wasn't always so. The island changed hands amongst the chief European powers (hell, even the Courlanders took a shot at it) so frequently that it was hard to say who had claim to what these days. Now void of any permanent governing body, Tobago earned its reputation as a haven for criminals, wrongdoers and pirates alike. Trade winds brought a steady flow of slow moving merchant, trade and passenger ships, so pillaging around the island was akin to shooting fish in a barrel. Even Tortuga, in all its wicked glory paled grossly in comparison to Tobago's debauchery, corruption and lawlessness.

One would think any pirate in their right mind would jump at the opportunity to bask in such decadence, but Jack was shaking in his stolen imported Italian leather boots. An intoxicating mix of excitement and apprehension coursed through his body, leaving him a nervous wreck of a man as he bit each and every one of his fingernails down to the quick. The stakes had risen considerably in the past twenty-four hours.

Jack was no stranger to Tobago. He's spent many of his younger days picking off merchant ships as they tried to squeeze past Galera Point undetected. It was by far the easiest and most profitably pirating he'd ever partaken of, and brought a nostalgic smile to his face that lasted a fleeting moment. Nope. Damn. The overwhelming since of impending doom was back, with a vengeance.

The cabin door slammed open and Montebello swooped in and stormed the large coffee pot and breakfast platter the Cookie brought up first thing in the morning. Jack didn't think he could stomach the vicious-looking black liquid, so his breakfast consisted of a handful of biscuits and a hearty swig from a bottle of _mezcal reposado_ he'd snagged on his way out of a distiller's daughter's bedroom two weeks ago.

"So, mate," Jack mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs. "Once we capture these French spies an' all, I don't hafta actually, ya know, turn 'em into the Royal Navy myself. Ya can do that fer me, cantcha Monty, old chap?"

"W-what?" Montebello sprayed a fine mist of coffee all over his meager breakfast of "You know I can't do it."

"Why bloody not?" Jack demanded, as he shook the crumbs from the breast of his jacket. "The Commodore would take one look at me an' hang me from tha first rafter he could find! But a fine gentleman like you…"

Dabbing the table and his chin with a fresh handkerchief, Montebello clucked in disappointment. "Jack, you're not _that_ daft, are you? Think, man! Why would I have been following on the tails of the French Inspector General of Police in the first place? How in the world could the son of a poor Sardinian sheep-breeder afford an Oxford education? How is it I'm such a sneaky son of a bitch?"

"Hard work an' discipline?" The pirate shrugged.

"Hard work, discipline and a monarchy to pad your coin purse. An awful lot can happen in nine years, Jack. Lots of hush-hush, if-I-tell-you-I'll-have-to-kill-you kind of things."

"Why ye are one sneaky little son of a bitch," admonished Jack, with a hint of admiration in his voice. "An' here I thought ye were the only honest man amongst us."

"Save for Turner?"

"Fer now. I'll make a pirate of him yet, just ye see. Speak o' the devil, where is he?"

"Out playing pirate." Montebello shrugged as he stirred his coffee with his index finger, then took a loud drawn out sip. "He's been out there grappling with the sails all morning."

Jack couldn't help but beam. "Atta boy."

The next four days were surprisingly uneventful. Will had taken a renewed interest in sailing, and from Morning Watch to Last Dog Watch everyday, he followed in Gibbs' every footstep. By the end of the first day, he could tie a bowline knot blindfolded, standing on one leg atop the Crow's Nest, which he proved later that evening after half a bottle of port wine.

The _Black Pearl_ made excellent time, as the only unfavorable conditions suffered were turbulent seas off the coast of Caracas. No lives or provisions were lost, save for those that resided in Montebello's stomach. The scholar spent the majority of his time aboard the ship hanging his head over a wooden bucket and occasionally mumbling skyward to ramble off a desperate prayer in Latin.

Jack and his crew had more pressing matters to attend to. With the _Atropos_ long gone and headed for Who-Knows-Where, Jack was in quite a predicament. The _Black Pearl_, perhaps the most infamous ship in the West Indies, would do him no great service this time around. If she were spotted and identified immediately, the jig would most undoubtedly be up. After a heated argument with the ship's new carpenter, Jack finally succumbed to the idea of disguising the _Pearl_'s hull with a coat of navy blue paint and white-washing the gunwhale to give it the appearance of being a grand merchant ship.

French and blue-crossed merchant flags were sewn together using whatever cloth they could rally together. Even Jack tossed in his red bandana under the pretense that he'd 'get it back as soon as we're done playin' dress-up.' Mister Cotton and his parrot, who were given the sole task of renaming the _Black Pearl_'s stern, took three tries and two coffee breaks and a cracker to spell _ATROPOS_ correctly, much to Montebello's dismay.

The ship wouldn't hold up to the slightest bit of scrutiny at close range, but Jack hoped that undercover of nightfall it would come off as the genuine article. So as a misty blanket of fog rolled down from the mountains as the _Black Pearl_ pulled into Scarborough, Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

Rockly Bay, though the largest port on the island, could barely contain all the traffic that trundled through it, even at such an unconventional hour. Fishing sloops and caravels crowded the shores, as a steady stream of rowboats and quarterboats stuffed to the decks with loud-mouthed drunks and braggarts flowed to and from the docks. Gunfire rang out constantly on both side of the bay, drumming out a near steady beat that one could almost dance to, if only it had a little more cowbell.

It was all in one word, _beautiful_.

As Montebello and Will took on the task of locating the rendezvous point, Jack slipped into Jacques' finest peacock blue ensemble, complete with matching (debatable) coral pink feathered tricorne hat. A quick shave and spritz of exotic cologne later, Captain Jack Sparrow was once again the embodiment of French fashion.

"So, where's Mister..." Jack peered over Montebello's shoulder at his leather journal as he joined them on the quarterdeck. "Excuse me, _Monsieur_ G. C. LeBeau?"

"Nowhere to be found. We've got a clear view of the meeting place," Will declared as he motioned towards a wooden pier jutting into the bay. "But no one, short of a few grubby fishermen have shown up so far."

"Perhaps we have missed him?" Montebello offered an explanation. "After all, we are far more than a few hours late. Nearly a full day."

Jack landed a hollow pat on both Will and Montebello's backs. "They're still here, believe you me. Jus' keep a weather eye out of tha ol' frog and I'll handle tha rest, boys."

So they waited.

Minutes passed at first, then hours. Three rounds of whist and two and half dozen dirty jokes later, the waiting party was just about ready to call it a night. It was nearly midnight, and while the bay was still bustling with drunken boatfuls of pirates, brigands and other sea-faring hooligans, the rendezvous point was remarkably deserted.

Jack, who had been perched perilously on a rickety looking barrel, pushed himself onto his feet and tossed his feathered abomination of a hat on the deck. "We were stood up, mates. All dressed up an' nowhere ta go. I suppose we'll never find out wha-" A distant clanging caught Jack's attention. A little voice in the back of his head warned him not to look.

But he did. And he wished he hadn't.

Two of the most imposing brigandines Jack Sparrow had ever laid eyes on were anchored on respective sides of the bay, hatches open, cannons out and ready to broadside whatever poor slob got in their way. It came only as a slight surprise that they were named _Clotho_ and_ Lachesis_. And they had just launched two quarterboats headed straight for the _Black Pearl_.

There was no escaping the Fates now.

* * *

_Author's Note: It's down to the wire now. Only a few more chapters to go! Please, if you've got the time, leave me some feedback/criticism/blatant praise/Swiss bank account numbers/first-born children. All will be appreciated, and the first-born children are tax-deductible! You just can't lose!_


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